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rC\r'  CANDLES 

AND -OTHER- POEMS 


ELIZA-  BOYLE  •  O'REILLY 


OF  THE 

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MY   CANDLES 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 


MY    CANDLES 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


BY 


ELIZA   BOYLE   O'REILLY 


BOSTON 

LEE    AND    SHEPARD 

1903 


Those  who  remember  John  Boyle  O'Reilly, 

the  Irish-American  poet,  and  the  absolutely 
loyal  way  in  which  he  flung  himself  into 
American  life,  will  be  glad  to  receive  a 
volume,  'My  Candles,  and  Other  Poems," 
by  Eliza  Boyle  O'Reilly,  his  eldest  daughter 
(Boston:  Lee  &  Shepard).  It  is  rarely  that 
a  young  poet,  printing  a  first  volume,  con- 
centrates so  much  strength  into  six  lines  as 
does  Miss  O'Reilly  into  the  close  of  her  title 
poem,  which  opens  the  book: 

"Ouce  in  a  seaport  on  the  coast  of  France 
I  found  a  tranquil  church,   time-scarred  and  gray, 
High  on  a  hill,  a  beacon  to  the  bay; 
I  saw  a  rough  lad  reverently  advance, 
Drop  his  small  coin,   and,   with  an  upward  glance 
At  the  dim  altai-.   light  his  candle.     Yea, 
Amid  the  wild  storm  of  the  ocean  sprav 
This  tolien  had  been  vowed  against  mischance. 

"  'O  Faith!'  I  cried,  'Thou  art  a  wondrous  thing!* 
Forthwith   I   lighted  candles  that   were   mine- 
Tapers  of  trust  in  purpose,   lilndness,   youth; 
Now.  when  the  beating  waves  or  still  calms  bring 
Discouragement.  I  bend  before  the  shrine 
Of"1;he  dead  mighty  ones  who  strove  for  Truth." 

Many  pages  of  the  volume  are  given  to  de- 
lightful passages  of  foreign  travel,  of  which 
this  is  one  of  the  most  graceful  (p.  33): 

THE    PRIVILEGED    HOUR. 

Up  Lustleigh  Cleave  I  went  one  summer  eve, 

And  as  I  climbed  I  met  a  child  at  play, 

Of  whom  I  asked,   "What  is  a  cleave'.'" 

Then  through  that  pleasant  Devon  way, 

Through  uplands  strewn  with  giant  stone. 

With  granite  boulders  rent  and  overthrown, 

She   guided   me. 

"Some  one  up  there,"  she  said,  . 

And     heavenward    went    her    eyes    in    childhood's 

vague   surmise, 
"I   think   he  scattered   something   here," 
I  answered.    "Mere  rough  rocks,   I  fear." 
Perplexed,  but  confident,  she  shook  her  head: 
"Oh— not  rocks  then!"  she  chlded  me. 
Thou   never  failing  mystery 
In  which  a  child  can  wrap  this  earth 
From  doubt,  from  chill  of  unbelief,  this  earth 
Of  grievous  death,   of  ever-hopeful  birth! 


£^'t 


CONTENTS 


9^3 


PAGE 


My  Candles 7 

Return  of  the  Cattle  in  September 8 

Mona  Lisa 10 

A  Mile  of  Eastern  Roses 11 

Spring  Longings 12 

Thy  Grave,  and  Mine 17 

Courage ! 20 

Fancies 22 

Lines  at  Ipswich 24 

To  Charles  Lamb       .•.•••..26 

To-day 28 

While  we  Sleep 30 

In  Patris  Memoriam 32 

The  Privileged  Hour 33 

A  Boast  and  its  Answer 41 

Peasants  climbing  to  Miirren 42 

3 


ivi637775 


CONTENTS 


Moments    .... 

Et  Ego  in  Arcadia  !    . 

Metaphysics 

A  Ballad  of  the  Loire 

Touraine  Sonnets : 

I.  The  Staircase  of  Blois 

II.  Sunset  at  Chaumont 

III.  Chenonceau  . 

IV.  Joan  at  Chinon 
Song  .... 
Wordsworth 

Rondeaus  in  a  Library,  I,  II,  III 
On  the  Lake : 
I.     Youth  . 

II.  Shadows 

III.  Remonstrance 

IV.  Noon    . 
V.     Afternoon 


VL 


At  Twilight 


VII.     Love-late-in-Life 
Stonehenge 
The  Poet's  Visitant    . 
A  Buttress  Niche 


44 
46 

47 
48 

50 
51 
52 
53 
54 
56 
57 

60 
62 
63 

65 
66 
69 
70 
72 
73 
75 


CONTENTS  5 


PAGE 


A  Death-bed  Thought 76 

Shan  van  vocht n 

The  Clerk  of  Limburg 79 

Detachment 81 

Trumpets  and  Bells 84 

A  Poet  on  his  Mistress'  Blush 88 

Insomnia;  Compensations 89 

Tennyson's  Child <p 

The  Return  to  Health 92 

Lost  Ideals 94 

Once  on  a  Time 95 

Henri  de  la  Rochejaquelein  {One  Acf)       ....  96 

Notes ^21 


MY   CANDLES 

ONCE  in  a  seaport  on  the  coast  of  France 
I  found  a  tranquil  church,  time-scarred  and  gray, 
High  on  a  hill,  a  beacon  to  the  bay; 
I  saw  a  rough  lad  reverently  advance, 
Drop  his  small  coin,  and  with  an  upward  glance 
At  the  dim  altar,  light  his  candle.     Yea, 
Amid  the  wild  storm  of  the  ocean  spray 
This  token  had  been  vowed  against  mischance. 

"  O  Faith  !  "  I  cried,  "  Thou  art  a  wondrous  thing  ! " 
Forthwith  I  lighted  candles  that  were  mine  — 
Tapers  of  trust  in  purpose,  kindness,  youth  : 
Now,  when  the  beating  waves  or  still  calms  bring 
Discouragement,  I  bend  before  the  shrine 
Of  the  dead  mighty  ones  who  strove  for  Truth. 

[7] 


RETURN  OF  THE  CATTLE  IN  SEPTEMBER 

(Switzerland) 

DOWN  from  the  crags  of  the  mountains, 
Down  from  the  lands  near  the  skies, 
Lands,  where  the  great  river  fountains 

Rippling  arise, 
Down  come  the  herds  of  the  cattle, 
Musical  bells  ringing  clear, 
Back  to  their  bondage  as  chattel. 
Lowing  in  fear. 

Wistful  the  eyes  of  the  younglings. 
Born  on  the  heights  near  the  moon 
Stifling  to  them  is  the  valley. 

Sun-wrapt  at  noon  ; 
Frighted,  bewildered,  they  scatter, 
Pant  for  their  freedom  of  old. 
Stern  drives  the  voice  of  the  herdsman 

On  to  the  fold. 

Patient,  subdued,  plod  the  elders  — 
Thraldom  to  man  know  they  well  !  — 
Back  in  the  field  and  the  farm-yard 

Once  more  to  dwell  ! 

[8] 


RETURN    OF   THE    CATTLE    IN    SEPTEMBER 

Herd  follows  herd  down  the  highroad, 
Day  is  o'ershadowed  for  me, 
Grieved  is  my  heart  by  the  tramping  : 
Life  should  be  free  ! 

Cold,  will  they  dream  of  their  summer  ? 
Dream  of  their  mountains  aloft  ? 
Paths  never  trod  by  a  mortal  ? 

Cloud-touches  soft  ? 
Dream,  when  the  snow  hides  the  valley, 
Village,  and  mile-stone,  and  rill, 
Dream  that  a  white-shrouded  plavground 

Misses  them  still  ? 

Down  from  the  crags  of  the  mountains, 
Down  from  the  lands  near  the  skies. 
Lands,  where  the  great  river  fountains 

Rippling  arise; 
Down  come  the  herds  of  the  cattle, 
Musical  bells  ringing  clear, 
Back  to  their  bondage  as  chattel. 

Lowing  in  fear. 


[9] 


MONA    LISA 

AT  white-crowned  Milan,  Leonardo  stayed 
To  paint  del  Giacondo's  wife,  whose  face 
p"or  him  possessed  that  inward  haunting  grace. 
That  subtlety  of  look  which  he  essayed 
Through  life  to  seize,  a  mystery  to  evade 
All  but  his  perfect  master-touch.     The  space 
Of  four  long  years  he  gave  to  this  keen  chase, 
And  ever,  while  he  strove,  had  music  played. 

Madonna  Lisa  smiles  on  us  the  same 

As  on  her  tortured  painter.       Though  her  bloom 

Faded  long  since,  though  dull  the  canvas  stands. 

We  still  surmise  —  wisdom  or  craft  —  the  name 

For  her  rapt  look,  inscrutable  as  doom. 

"  Decipher  me  !  "     She  waits  with  folded  hands. 


[,0] 


A  mile  of  Eastern  roses  scents  one  flask 
A  hundred  resolutions  urge  one  deed  : 
He  who  would  here  fulfil  his  daily  task 

On  noblest  thoughts  must  feed  — 

Grow  gardens  for  a  seed. 


["] 


SPRING   LONGINGS 

OH,  I'm  longing  and  I'm  yearning  for  the  Spring 
Oh,  the  Spring ! 
When  the  brown  earth's  smell  is  sweeter 
Than  a  summer  rose  to  me. 
When  the  lake's  dark  water  gleams  again 
And  ice  floats  down  to  sea. 
When  I  pluck  a  common  bramble 
Just  because  it  bears  a  leaf, 
And  I  carol  with  the  bluebird, 
"  Past  is  winter  —  past  is  grief! 
'Tis  the  Spring  !  " 

Even  evergreens  are  fresher, 
I  shall  nibble  their  new  shoots, 
Crying,  "  Ho,  ye  hardy  rascals. 
Ye  would  play  spring's  substitutes  ? 
Would  be  flaunting  as  the  blossoms 
Heralding  their  ruddy  fruits  ?  " 
"  Our  turn  !  "  piped  the  periwinkles 
Clustered  round  the  hoary  roots  — 
"  'Tis  the  Spring  !  " 


SPRING   LONGINGS 

And  beside  the  wooded  hillock 
Runs  a  pathway  that  I  know, 
Where  the  pine  trees  drop  their  needles. 
Where  the  sun  rays  warmly  glow  : 
Ah,  the  scent  of  that  wild  pathway 
Haunts  as  poignant  memories  do, 
Where  the  pine  trees  drop  their  needles 
And  the  golden  stars  prick  through 
In  the  Spring ! 

And  beyond  that  vibrant  archway 
Gleams  the  dog-wood  as  of  old. 
My  own  dog-wood  bough  !      I  wonder 
Will  its  leaves  again  unfold 
With  the  same  white  startling  radiance  ? 
Will  it  soar  with  haughty  mien 
So  imperious  with  the  flowering 
That  it  scorns  the  common  green 
Of  the  Spring  ? 

Oh,  I'm  longing  and  I'm  yearning  for  the  Spring  ! 

Oh,  the  Spring  ! 
When  Jack  preaches  from  his  pulpit, 
With  severe  prim  countenance 
To  the  thronging  reckless  columbines. 
And  the  lady  slippers  dance, 

[■3] 


SPRING    LONGINGS 

And  the  sweet,  demure  anemones 
Cry  — <■<■  Such  wild  extravagance  !  " 
When  the  blunt  wake-robin  sturdily 
Maintains,  with  bold-eyed  glance  — 
"  'Tis  the  Spring  !  " 

Then  grow  waxen  twin-born  flowerets 
Fit  to  grace  a  fairy's  head  — 
(Autumn  gnomes  will  rob  her  of  them 
When  they  turn  to  berries  red  !) 
Then  wild  lilies  of  the  valley 
Cool  and  sylvan  carpets  spread 
Much  too  delicate  and  lovely 
For  a  mortal  foot  to  tread. 
Oh,  the  Spring ! 

Far  away  there  is  a  bower ; 
Every  year  I  seek  it  out, 
Past  the  furrowed  field,  the  orchard, 
Near  a  bank  where  oak  trees  sprout ; 
There  the  timid  yellow  bellworts 
Droop  their  slender  heads,  in  doubt 
Whether  blossoms  claim  them  kindred 
Or  the  fresh  young  grass  about. 
Oh,  the  Spring ! 
[H] 


SPRING    LONGINGS 

Other  flowers  are  more  stately, 
Rich  in  color,  brave  in  show, 
But  I  hold  my  simple  bellwort 
Dearer  than  all  flowers  that  blow ; 
For  I  fancy  it  remembers  me 
All  winter  'neath  the  snow, 
And  when  springtime  comes,  it  whispers, 
«  I  am  waiting  !     Will  he  know 
'Tis  the  Spring  ?  " 

And  I  purpose  —  tell  it  softly, 
Oh,  ye  poor  leaf-barren  trees ! 
Trill  ye  cannot,  chirp  it  lightly. 
Winter  birds,  adown  the  breeze. 
There's  a  heart  I  hope  to  conquer. 
There's  a  gentle  heart  may  yield. 
When  the  ice-bound  brook  runs  free  again 
And  bluets  deck  the  field 
In  the  Spring. 

We  shall  seek,  perhaps  together 
Hand  in  hand,  each  well-loved  nook, 
I  shall  crown  her  fair  with  violets 
Plucked  beside  the  merry  brook. 
Ah,  perhaps  she'll  let  me  lead  her  — 
['5] 


SPRING   LONGINGS 

Spring  sap  surging  warm  and  wild  — 
To  the  bed  of  yellow  bellwort 
That  I've  cherished  since  a  child! 
Oh,  I'm  longing  and  I'm  yearning  for  the  Spring 
Oh,  the  Spring ! 


[16] 


THY    GRAVE,   AND    MINE 


w, 


HEN  thou  art  dead 
What  friendly  tree  would'st  thou  have  grow 

Above  thy  head, 
That  this  forgetful  world  may  know. 
Here  lieth  one  who  hath  outwitted  woe  ? 


A  sturdy  oak  ? 
But  oaks  are  for  the  white-haired  sage, 

Since  sober  cloak 
And  rugged  bark  are  fit  for  age 
That  hath  endured  a  time-worn  pilgrimage  : 


A  poplar  slim  ? 
'Tis  meet  for  those  who  chant  through  life 

The  easy  hymn 
Of  passive  quietude,  whose  knife 
Forth  from  its  sheath  is  never  drawn  in  strife 

[•7] 


THY    GRAVE,    AND    MINE 

Nor  is  the  elm 
Although  a  fair  and  gracious  tree 

Within  thy  realm, 
Thou  who  dost  ever  long  to  be 
In  wildest  brakes,  at  gladsome  liberty  ! 

No  —  'tis  the  beech 
That  thou  must  choose.     Its  rustling  shade 

This  earth  will  teach, 
There  is  such  bliss  as  moon-lit  glade, 
Such  ecstasy  as  plighted  youth  and  maid ; 

There  are  such  things 
As  perfect  growing  symmetry. 

As  swallow  wings, 
Such  keen  delight  as  tossing  free 
Great  wind-swept  branches  in  exultant  glee. 


* 


And  if,  my  friend, 
I  should  the  first  meet  death,  I  pray 

Above  me  bend 
Cedars  of  Lebanon  !      Array 
These  dark-clad  kingly  aliens  here  astray, 

[.8] 


THY    GRAVE,    AND    MINE 

Sublime  bequest 
To  me  in  my  forgotten  grave 

So  still  at  rest. 
Loved  tree  !   in  benediction  wave 
O'er  one  v^^hojoys  intangible  did  crave, 

One  who,  like  thee. 
Strange  Cedar  !   sighed  for  far-off  lands 

Of  mystery. 
O  tree  !   dost  dream  thy  mountain  scans 
The  wide  horizon,  for  its  exiled  bands 

Across  the  sea  ? 
Some  distant  Lebanon,  I  know 

Waits  too  for  me, 
Where  saffron-bordered  rivers  flow. 
Where  aloes  bloom,  where  fragrant  breezes  blow. 


[•9] 


COURAGE! 

I   SHOWED  my  Love 
(Tears  in  her  eyes, 
Thunder  above 

All  dark  her  skies,)  — 

I  showed  my  Love 
A  land  bird  brave, 

Floating  above 

The  clamorous  wave. 

Small  pinions  spread 
Proudly  he  sailed  : 

Looked  down  in  dread. 
And  fluttering,  quailed  : 

Rose  high  anon ; 

Lost  heart  once  more  5 
Still  strove  he  on 

And  gained  the  shore  ! 

[20] 


COURAGE ! 

If  little  bird, 

Dear  Love,  I  cried, 
Soars  undeterred 

By  fiercest  tide. 

Smile  then,  dark  eyes, 
Love,  smile  on  me. 

Thou  too  wilt  rise, 
Wilt  breast  the  sea. 


[^•] 


FANCIES 

OH,  I  would  be  that  simple  shepherd  boy 
In  sea-bound  Melos,  when  he  turned  the  sod 
That  hid  through  vandal  years  a  perfect  joy, 

Ages  could  not  destroy, 
A  marble  goddess  dreaming  of  a  god. 
Dinted  and  stained  and  broken,  no  alloy 
Could  taint  her  !      Did  he  fall  and  worship  there 
That  island  shepherd.  Pagan  unaware. 
And  ever  after  go  through  life  astray 
With  thirst  no  earth-born  beauty  could  allay  ? 

Fain  would  I  be  that  boy ! 

Oh,  I  would  be  that  distant  gazing  star 
That  loves  each  ripple  of  this  earth  beneath 
And  one  still  night  when  bleak  the  calendar. 

When  shepherds  hoar  unbar 
Their  snow-flocks,  drive  them  forth  o'er  hill  and  heath 
To  hide  in  spotless  white  each  crag  and  scar. 
My  star  aloft  would  see  with  deep  surprise 
This  earth  he  thought  he  knew,  whose  rare  disguise 


FANCIES 

Makes  her  as  strange,  as  when  a  noble  aim 
Wraps  a  friend's  frailties  from  all  carping  blame. 

Fain  would  I  be  that  star! 

Oh,  I  would  be  those  architects  of  fire 
Before  whose  half-shut  eyes  an  Amiens  rose, 
Or  Chartres  bodied  forth  their  vast  desire. 

And  transept,  nave,  and  choir 
Sprang  up,  a  living  thought  in  stone's  repose. 
Long  years  have  passed  away  since  such  men  dreamed 
Doubtful  their  very  names  have  grown,  they  seemed 
To  care  not  for  the  coming  ages'  praise. 
Enough  for  them  one  deathless  prayer  to  raise. 

Fain  would  I  soar  —  their  spire  ! 


[^3] 


LINES    AT   IPSWICH 

LONG  banks  of  drifted  sand  shut  out  the  sea, 
White  fossil  waves  piled  up  in  barren  state ; 
No  life  lives  here :  a  buried  orchard  tree 
But  makes  the  dreary  scene  more  desolate. 
As  one  who  in  a  sleep  unfortunate, 
Fain  would  escape  some  fast-pursuing  fear 
Yet  cannot  move,  —  so  strains  a  traveller  here. 

The  friendly  ocean,  longing  for  the  fields. 
Whose  rustling  groves  it  hears  beyond  the  sand. 
Silently  up  the  peaceful  river  steals 
And  lays  its  arms  about  the  dune-locked  land. 
Around  this  hillock,  here  where  oaks  command, 
The  sea-born  waters  lure,  and  swallows  fly 
Backward  and  forward,  flitting  endlessly. 

And  skimming  o'er  the  inlets,  each  can  see 
His  mirrored  image  in  the  tranquil  streams. 
And  breathlessly  he  dips,  as  if  to  be 

[H] 


LINES   AT   IPSWICH 

At  one  with  it.     In  vain  !      Like  man  who  dreams 

That  with  a  loved  one's  life,  his  own  life  seems 
A  perfect  unison,  till  late  he  learns 
Each  separate  soul  in  isolation  yearns. 

On  quivering  wing  the  restless  swallows  float, 

And  headlong  flashing  sweep,  and  upward  soar, 

And  curve  back  to  the  water.     Like  remote 

Vague  thoughts  now  seem  they,  hovering  round  the  door 

Of  Mystery,  hke  brooding  thoughts  that  pore 

On  the  Eternal,  touch  their  wings  in  flight, 

Yet  never  wholly  lose  themselves  in  light. 

But  as  I  mused,  a  sportsman  in  the  marsh 
Scattered  a  shot,  and  swift  away  then  sped 
The  frightened  scudding  swallows,  at  the  harsh 
Discordant  sound.      One  drooped  his  eager  head, 
Fluttered,  and  fell  into  the  water  —  dead. 
And  then  I  wondered  what  that  swallow  found 
Within  the  stream  it  loved  to  circle  round. 


[^5] 


TO    CHARLES    LAMB 

O  CHOICE  and  kindly  spirit,  in  whose  sight 
The  grimy  London  streets  were  fair  as  lanes 
Of  leafy  Devon,  whose  fine  fancy  found 
Visions  of  Venice  in  a  Margate  Hoy  ! 
A  weary  length  of  days  in  labor  spent 
Dulled  not  your  soul,  and  when  the  respite  came, 
Like  some  pale  victim  of  the  old  Bastile 
Freed  from  his  dungeon  after  forty  years, 
You  wandered  forth,  perplexed  to  find  yourself 
Afar  from  Mincing  Lane  at  hour  of  'Change ; 
Till  eating  of  the  lotus  leaf  of  rest 
Those  vexing  years  of  arid  industry 
Stretched  like  a  fragile  landscape  in  a  mist. 

Rare  heart  that  beat  with  loyalty  undimmed 
To  cheer  a  tragic  mystery  of  fate  ! 
As  true  a  hero  in  your  lowly  life 
As  Nelson  dying  on  his  gallant  ship  ! 


TO    CHARLES   LAMB 

O  gentle  scholar  mid  your  folios  old  I 
O  master  of  shy  wit  and  humour  sweet, 
Of  moving  pathos,  and  quaint  phantasy, 
Lead  us  to  courage  and  a  dauntless  trust. 
May  we  too  wander  by  a  turbid  Thames 
As  if  its  waters  were  the  rippling  Lee. 


[^7] 


TO-DAY 

THERE  is  a  precious  flitting  thing 
Almost  unknown  to  fame, 
Though  gentle  poets  often  sing 
Its  pleasing  antiquated  Spring, 
Or  tell  its  coming  aim, 
'Tis  rarely  that  these  poets  wing 
Their  rhymes,  to  greet  this  outcast  king 
When  Present  is  its  name. 

They  sing  of  happiness  gone  by. 
They  tell  of  sorrows  past, 

And  olden  days  they  beautify. 

And  olden  ways  they  dignify. 

And  old-time  thoughts  recast ; 

This  living  moment  they  outfly 

Of  future  hours  to  prophesy  — 
A  future  proud  and  vast. 

[28] 


TO-DAY 

And  we  who  are  not  poets  too 

This  wistful  hour  disdain ; 
Old  Yesterday  we  would  renew, 
And  false  To-morrow  would  pursue, 

To-day  smiles  here  in  vain, 
Until  it  goes  with  sad  "  Adieu," 
To  join  the  Yesterday  we  rue. 

Too  late  we  cry,  "  Remain  !  " 


[^9] 


WHILE    WE    SLEEP 

WHILE  we  sleep  (we  think  the  world  sleeps  with  us  !) 
Through  the  moist  brown  earth  the  mushroom 
grows, 
In  the  dark  it  spreads  its  faery  table : 

Night-time  knows 
All  the  witchcraft  of  the  spider's  weaving, 
Proves  his  kinship  with  that  spinner  rare, 
Hanging  dewdrops  in  his  web  of  gauze  threads, 

Light  as  air. 

While  we  sleep  (imagining  Life  sleepeth  !  ) 
There's  a  flower  opens  in  delight. 
Yields  the  fragrance  of  its  snowy  blossom 

To  the  night; 
But  when  the  hardier  flowers  lift  and  waken, 
When  earth  greets  again  the  gairish  day. 
Then  the  midnight  cereus,  blighted,  drooping. 

Fades  away. 

[30] 


WHILE    WE    SLEEP 

While  we  sleep  (lost  in  unconscious  dreamland  !) 

Rises  soft  the  crescent  moon  afar, 

Close  companioned  is  she  by  the  wondrous 

Morning  star : 
Gleams  a  pageant,  amber,  rose,  and  lilac, 
Upward  is  night's  sombre  curtain  drawn 
For  the  lucid,  opalescent  marvel 

Of  the  dawn. 


[31] 


(In  Patris  Memoriam) 

GREAT  men  of  science  say  we  vainly  dream 
When  hoping  for  a  life  beyond  this  soil, 
Or  that  reward  will  crown  our  ceaseless  toil ; 
They  say,  "  We  do  not  know."       And  it  doth  seem 
To  these  revealers  of  Earth's  mighty  scheme 
A  poorer  faith  to  trust,  than  to  recoil 
From  hope  unproved.     They  hold,  in  life's  turmoil. 
To  wait  at  peace,  though  blind,  the  hour  supreme. 

In  doubt  I  mused  on  one  whom  Death  had  claimed  : 

Now,  when  I  die,  he  may  not  welcome  me 

I  sighed.  .  .  .     Across  my  brain  a  mean  thought  brushed, 

A  buzzing  petty  thing  I  swiftly  shamed. 

For  suddenly  I  knew  his  soul  was  free 

To  read  my  thought,  and  in  the  dark,  I  blushed. 


[3^] 


THE    PRIVILEGED    HOUR 


UP  Lustleigh  Cleave  I  went  one  summer  eve, 
And  as  I  climbed  I  met  a  child  at  play 
Of  whom  I  asked  "  What  is  a  cleave  ?  " 
Then  through  that  pleasant  Devon  way, 
Through  uplands  strewn  with  giant  stone, 
With  granite  boulders  rent  and  overthrown. 
She  guided  me. 

"  Some  one  up  there,"  she  said. 
And  heavenward  went  her  eyes,  in  childhood's  vague 

surmise, 
"  I  think  he  scattered  something  here." 
I  answered,  "  Mere  rough  rocks,  I  fear." 
Perplexed  but  confident  she  shook  her  head  : 
"  Oh —  not  rocks  then  !  "  she  chided  me. 
Thou  never  failing  mystery 
In  which  a  child  can  wrap  this  earth 
From  doubt,  from  chill  of  unbelief,  this  earth 
Of  grievous  death,  of  ever-hopeful  birth  ! 

[33] 


THE    PRIVILEGED    HOUR 


II 

Within  my  heart 

That  peaceful  eve,  on  Lustleigh  Cleave, 

All  turned  to  revery  apart ; 

I  looked  not  back,  but  dow^n,  upon  the  past. 

Breathing  an  ampler  air,  I  felt  a  thrill 

Of  memory ;  just  as  each  tor-crowned  hill 

Against  the  opal  sky,  then  seemed  so  near 

My  hand  might  reach  them,  past  days  did  appear. 

And  all  as  clear. 

As  chalets  on  a  mountain,  when  a  cloud 

Breaks,  and  they  stand  rain-washed  and  proud. 

So  clear  —  each  vanished  year! 

Then  thoughts  that  warred  and  struggled  seemed  to  be 

United  in  a  brotherly  amity. 

Their  jangled  notes  fell  into  harmony. 

Then  questions  answered  were. 

Wheat  garnered  from  the  tare ; 

And  routed  Wherefore  fled  outcast, 

Though  mocking  to  the  last. 


[34] 


THE   PRIVILEGED   HOUR 


III 


Why  vainly  should  I  grieve 
Because  I  knew  Life  was  a  passing  thing, 
As  swift  and  transient  as  the  eagle  wing, 
That  floated  high  above  the  fading  moor, 
'Neath  Lustleigh  Cleave  ? 
For  Life  fulfils  its  purpose ;   none  so  poor 
That  He  will  scorn.     Do  not  His  words  proclaim 
Eagle  and  ant  the  same  ? 
The  busv  Httle  ant,  close  by  my  feet, 
As  needful  in  his  scheme,  as  all  complete 
As  soaring  eagle  in  the  cloud-piled  sky  ? 
Then  suddenly  it  seemed  that  I 
Was  freed  a  hitherto  harsh  bond. 
No  more  a  slave  or  victim,  but  a  fond 
And  erring  child,  I  crept  unto  His  knee  ; 
No  longer  dark  my  onward  pathway  lay. 
Since  flowers  He  made  to  bloom,  and  birds  to  sing, 
Since  night  and  day. 

Sad  man  may  hear  this  joyous  welkin  ring. 
His   flowers,  His  birds.  His   world,  why  were  they   not 
for  me  ? 


[35] 


THE    PRIVILEGED    HOUR 


IV 

Clear  sight  was  mine,  an  hour  privileged  ! 

Then  happiness 

No  longer  seemed  a  Golden  Fleece  to  pique 

Our  eagerness, 

A  Nibelungen  treasure,  far  to  seek. 

In  every  breast  it  lies,  a  garden  fair. 

Unhedged, 

Free  as  the  universal  air. 

Though  some  there  go  who  have  no  eyes  to  see. 

And  some  have  sight  but  for  one  hour,  ah  me  ! 

An  hour's  reprieve,  a  Lustleigh  Cleave  ! 

And  some  who,  learned  grown  in  worldly  lore, 

Tiresias-like,  too  closely  scrutinize 

This  bit  of  heaven  in  disguise. 

And  straight  are  stricken  blind,  and  see  no  more : 

Still  are  there  others,  those  we  call  the  seers. 

Who  guard  this  golden  inner  light  for  years. 


[36] 


THE  PRIVILEGED   HOUR 


Though  swiftly  sped  my  hour  and  left 
Me  sore  bereft, 

Though  meagre  thoughts  again  were  mine, 
And  faltering  design, 
Yet  to  my  soul  was  then  confided 
A  trust  inviolate  that  since  hath  guided 
With  voice  benign. 

For  like  the  patriarch  Isaac,  who  at  eve 
Oft  sought  the  pensive  fields  to  meditate,  a  bower, 
A  field  apart  have  I, 
A  memory  I  know  will  never  die. 
Serene  as  solitude  it  waits  at  rest. 
Within  its  narrow  span  it  holds  my  best  — 
A  single  hour 

That  from  the  thousands  dead,  found  strength  to  raise 
its  head. 


[37] 


THE    PRIVILEGED    HOUR 


VI 

Wisely  that  happy  little  child, 

Her  fancies  of  the  world  did  weave, 

At  play  upon  thy  Devon  wild, 

O  Lustleigh  Cleave  ! 

And  since  that  summer  day  I  too  believe. 

Not  with  an  alien  eye  I  look 

On  mystics  who  have  shut  life's  active  book, 

And  isolated  on  the  mountains  pray  ; 

A  kindling  ray 

Has  taught  me  sympathy  with  all  who  bend  the  knee, 

With  joyous  carol,  or  with  plaintive  plea, 

Whether  in  Trappist  cell  they  kneel. 

Or  Eastern  mosque. 

All  are  found  worthy  in  the  end  I  feel. 

If  from  the  heart  rises  the  holocaust. 

Though  some  may  call  Him  Nature,  the  Ideal, 

His  mind,  all-knowing,  reads  beneath  the  name. 

The  vague  and  hidden  aim. 

In  the  true  brotherhood  of  those  who  think  and  dream, 

Who  upward  yearn  with  prayer,  or  strife 

Incessant,  therein  lies  the  gleam. 

The  bond  that  binds  us  to  His  perfect  Life. 

[38] 


THE    PRIVILEGED    HOUR 


VII 

O  Lustleigh  Cleave  that  brought  my  hour  to  me, 

O  desolate  wan  scene,  the  Druid's  old  demesne, 

Mist-hid  thy  hills  and  streams  may  be, 

And  others  find  thee  not  so  fair  to  see  ! 

For  one,  thou  art  the  outward  sign  of  grace. 

Of  that  sweet  inward  grace,  man's  restless  soul  doth  trace 

Through  level  deserts  of  material  things. 

O  soaring  wings 

Whereon  I  rose  to  heights  above  my  power! 

0  radiant  remnant  of  a  dower, 
Inherited  from  far  and  lofty  lineage  ! 
White-gleaming  landmark !   thou  dost  show 
The  skyward  path  that  I,  so  low 

Here  on  the  ground,  now  desolate. 
Once  mounted  in  my  pilgrimage 
To  thy  high  state  : 
The  vast  Eternal  through  this  gate 

1  sought,  the  Inaccessible  through  this  portico. 
Ah,  when  at  last  we  pierce  the  veiling  haze. 
The  luring  mystery  of  the  inner  shrine. 
Then  shall  we  know,  ah,  then  shall  we  divine, 

[39] 


THE    PRIVILEGED    HOUR 

Why  He  hath  hidden  His  almighty  ways 
From  our  close-prying  sceptic  gaze ; 
Then  shall  we  praise 
His  wisdom  infinite,  His  great  design  ! 


[40] 


A    BOAST   AND    ITS   ANSWER 

DELIGHT,  and  love,  and  song,  and  ecstasy, 
I'll  write  in  golden  letters  on  the  sky, 
And  gloom,  and  fear,  and  hate,  and  misery. 
In  the  earth's  centre  buried  deep  will  lie, 
When  I  am  King.     Oh,  what  a  world  'twill  be ! 

What  will  poor  sparrows  do  when  peacocks  sing  ? 
When  thunder  never  rolls,  no  rainbow  span  ! 
When  tears  mean  joy,  sweet  sympathy,  take  wing ! 
When  June  is  endless,  fly,  dear  hope,  from  man  ! 
A  stupid  world  'twill  be,  when  you  are  King ! 


[41] 


PEASANTS   CLIMBING   TO    MURREN 

ALOFT  we  climb,  aloft,  aloft ! 
We  leave  the  troubled  vale  below, 
The  tumbling  rivulets  rave  and  flow. 
The  fretting  cataracts  downward  go, 

Aloft  we  climb,  aloft ! 
And  sweet  and  clear  our  lilts  we  sing, 
And  far  and  far  our  yodels  fling. 
And  wide  and  wide  the  echoes  ring. 
Aloft  we  climb,  aloft  ! 

Through  fields  we  mount,  by  chalets  lone, 
By  rustling  oak,  by  startling  birch, 
A  single  bird  chants  from  his  perch, 
Mid  groves  of  larch,  the  Alpine  church 

Calm  worship  claims  her  own. 
Faint  grows  the  troubled  vale  below. 
The  tumbling  rivulets  rave  and  flow. 
The  fretting  cataracts  downward  go  j 

Aloft  we  climb,  aloft ! 


PEASANTS    CLIMBING   TO    MURREN 

Zigzag  we  mount,  pass  and  repass, 
The  woods  are  spent,  the  rocks  are  bare, 
Steep  Is  the  way,  but  keen  the  air, 
The  snow  gleams  white,  and  almost  there 

Led  on  by  waiting,  loving  lass, 
Aloft  we  climb,  aloft,  aloft ! 
And  sweet  and  clear  our  lilts  we  sing, 
And  far  and  far  our  yodels  fling. 
And  wide  and  wide  the  echoes  ring. 

Aloft  we  climb,  aloft ! 


r43i 


MOMENTS 


SOMETIMES  when  we  stretch  our  finite  vision 
To  the  stars,  we  tremble  at  the  thought  — 
Countless  years  their  light  hath  hither  travelled, 

Ages,  fought 
Strenuous  cleaving  pathway  through  the  ether  ! 
Breathlessly  we  picture  nameless  spheres 
Whose  white  radiance  never  yet  has  reached  us, 
iEon-years ! 


Sometimes  when  we  pause  in  midmost  ocean, 

Watch  unlimited  the  darkness  spread, 

While  the  tearing,  shuddering  vessel  thunders, 

We  are  led 
To  an  altar  of  a  deep  thanksgiving 
That  a  pygmy  mortal  still  may  hold 
Safe  his  way,  mid  vast  unconquered  powers 

Manifold  ! 

[44] 


MOMENTS 


Or  at  times  upon  a  mountain  summit, 
Viewing  town  and  hamlet,  lake  and  stream, 
Sometimes  then  we  faintly  feel  a  portent, 

Touch  a  dream ; 
Wake,  to  find  again  that  we  know  nothing, 
Age  has  followed  age  with  dreams  the  same 
We  are  insects  beating  wings  of  tissue 

Round  a  flame. 


[45] 


ET   EGO    IN   ARCADIA! 

OF  all  the  sad  things  in  this  world  that  are, 
The  saddest  is  a  lonely  heart  in  Spring, 
Lone  as  a  tawny  thrush  with  broken  wing, 
Silent,  when  woodlands  sing. 


[46] 


METAPHYSICS 

^ROM  early  ages  men  have  tried  to  read 
The  world  and  human  destiny  :   in  vain 
By  water,  fire,  or  numbers  they  explain 
The  universe.     Each,  from  a  varying  need, 
Cries  —  "  Here  is  truth  !  "     The  vaunted  pathways  lead 
To  phantom  bridges  that  can  bear  no  strain. 
Illusive  deeps  these  mariners  attain, 
Where  circles  circles  endlessly  succeed. 

A  lesson  could  they  learn  of  him  who  drew 
The  famed  Last  Supper,  on  a  convent  wall. 
Still  potent,  though  in  ruin.     Since  he  knew 
How  futile  was  the  effort  to  inthrall 
Flis  archetype,  he  made  man's  image  true. 
But  left  unfinished  the  chief  Head  of  all. 


[47] 


A    BALLAD    OF   THE    LOIRE 

(Ballade  a  Double  Refrain) 

FRANCE  in  her  garden  of  Touraine 
With  vine  and  orchard  casts  her  spell, 
With  fields  of  flax,  and  lands  of  grain, 
With  castle,  spire,  and  citadel. 
White  solemn  towns  like  monks  in  cell ; 
And  past  them  all,  with  dashing  spray, 
Or  languid,  lazy,  lilting  swell. 
On  rolls  the  Loire  to  Biscay  Bay. 

Flowing  from  hills  of  mist  and  rain. 
In  far  Le  Puy,  it  heard  the  bell 
Ring  from  that  high  basaltic  chain 
With  castle,  spire,  and  citadel ; 
Bordered  with  gorse  and  asphodel. 
By  Blois  and  her  road-stairways  gay, 
Sliding  through  arches  parallel, 
On  rolls  the  Loire  to  Biscay  Bay. 

[48] 


A   BALLAD    OF   THE   LOIRE 

Chaumont,  Ambolse,  and  Tours,  in  vain 
Woo  it  to  linger,  each  to  tell 
She  is  the  loveliest  in  its  train 
With  castle,  spire,  and  citadel ; 
Mirror  for  Cinq  Mars'  sentinel. 
Brooding  on  that  grim  sphinx  astray. 
Dreaming  of  things  that  once  befell 
On  rolls  the  Loire  to  Biscay  Bay. 

Envoy 

Prince :  be  you  true  or  infidel 
With  castle,  spire,  and  citadel. 
Though  Time  and  Ruin  claim  you  prey 
On  rolls  the  Loire  to  Biscay  Bay. 


[49] 


TOURAINE   SONNETS 


THE    STAIRCASE    OF    BLOIS 

HERE  up  and  down  went  kings  and  queens  In  gold 
And  damask,  echoes  of  their  pageant  days 
Still  haunt  this  stairway  ;  past  these  empty  bays 
Flit  ghosts  that  should  in  marble  tombs  lie  cold. 
'Tis  here  the  palace-building  prince  enrolled 
His  salamander,  in  a  wondrous  maze 
Of  lovely  images  !      Intrigues,  displays. 
And  tales  of  crime,  these  worn  gray  steps  withhold ! 

Unknown  the  carver  of  this  gem  may  be ; 

Surely  its  fair  design  is  worthy  him 

Who  thought  a  king  for  patron  not  amiss  : 

The  great  Da  Vinci  found  beside  the  sea, 

One  day,  a  wave-washed  shell  (so  'tis  my  whim 

To  fancy)  from  whose  spiral  whorl  grew  this. 


[50] 


TOURAINE    SONNETS 


II 

SUNSET    AT    CHAUMONT 

A  scorching  heat  had  burned  the  fields  of  hay, 
And  shrunk  the  Loire  within  dull  banks  of  sand ; 
Whitened  with  dust  I  sighed  :      Is  this  the  land 
Where  Francis  rode  with  feast  and  roundelay  ? 
Did  wily  Catherine,  from  her  casement-bay 
Watch  her  weak  lord,  a  falcon  on  his  hand. 
Hunting  with  dark  Diana,  this  woodless  strand  ? 
Is  castled  history  so  parched  and  gray  ? 

But  when  from  Chaumont's  cliff  I  saw  the  sun. 
Beyond  the  river  sink,  a  crimson  sphere. 
Faint  grew  the  days  when  noble  or  high  dame 
Strolled  this  fair  court ;  as  if  to  honor  one, 
A  wandering  prince  of  Art,  who  lingered  here, 
The  royal  sunset  flamed  in  Turner's  name. 


[5.] 


TOURAINE    SONNETS 


III 

CHENONCEAU 

In  the  long  gallery  that  spans  the  stream 

At  Chenonceau,  walked  Mary  when  a  bride, 

Mary  of  Scotland,  m  her  youthful  pride 

As  queen,  and  there  she  dreamed  her  radiant  dream 

Of  early  love,  and  her  white  life  did  seem 

To  stretch  enticing  as  the  river  side 

In  all  its  sunny  loveliness.      No  guide, 

Alas,  to  counsel  her  mid  snare  and  scheme ! 

"  Adieu,  charmant  paye  de  France,"  she  sang, 
Watching  the  low-hung  Norman  coast  recede  : 
Far  north  in  her  bleak  castle  when  the  wind 
Swept  down  from  Arthur's  Seat  did  not  a  pang 
Of  longing  come  for  distant  Cher's  gay  mead. 
For  days  of  simple  faith,  untortured  mind  ? 


[52] 


TOURAINE    SONNETS 


IV 

JOAN    AT    CHINON 

When  travel-stained  Joan  an  audience  prayed 
Of  Charles,  another  served  as  king,  to  be 
Her  test,  and  sceptic  lordlings  thronged  to  see 
The  peasant  girl's  defeat ;   but  unafraid 
She,  for  a  space,  the  dazzling  court  surveyed. 
Then  going  to  the  true  king,  bowed  her  knee : 
"  O  gentle  Dauphin  !   God  is  pleased  to  free 
Your  captive  France  through  poor  Joan  the  Maid." 

"  But  yonder  is  the  king  !  "  cried  Charles,  in  fear. 

Joan  uplifted  eyes  of  purest  trust : 

"'Tis  you,  my  Prince,  must  wield  the  sword  I  bring," 

She  answered,  led  by  vision-guide  as  clear 

As  is  a  certain  voice  called  conscience,  just 

Firm  voice  that  leads  as  well  a  languid  king 


[53] 


SONG 


HEIGH-HO  !  the  sun  shines 
In  this  heart-happy  May. 
And  the  bobolink  sings, 
And  my  heart  is  as  gay, 
And  the  columbine  swings  ! 
And  each  shy  little  leaf 
Doffs  her  cloak,  noon  is  brief. 
Heigh-ho  !   the  sun  shines  ! 


Ah  me  !  the  rain  falls  ! 
And  the  song-thrush  is  dumb. 
And  the  woodlands  are  drear. 
And  the  blight  time  has  come : 
Every  joy  leaves  a  tear 
Just  as  roses  —  a  thorn. 
Just  as  eve  follows  morn. 

Ah  me  !  the  rain  falls  ! 
[54] 


SONG 


3 

Wake  !   while  the  sun  shines  ! 
Jocund  Spring,  fickle  sprite, 
With  the  foam-flower  flies, 
Wino-s  its  radiant  flight 
When  the  fawn-lily  sighs, 
Soon  November  will  bring 
Chilling  frosts,  then  in  Spring, 

Wake  !   while  the  sun  shines  ! 


[55] 


WORDSWORTH 

THE  olden  Prophets  bore  no  loftier  name 
Than  thine,  O  Poet  of  the  peaceful  hills  ! 
Whose  inward  eye  found  bliss  in  daffodils. 
Austerely  pure,  remote  from  sordid  aim, 
The  lowly  ones  of  earth  from  thee  could  claim 
Impassioned  contemplation.     Thy  word  refills 
The  sinking  lamps  of  wayfarers,  and  stills 
Their  flickering  light  to  burn  a  constant  flame. 

And  when  the  fretting  cities  warp  and  bind 
With  customs,  lifeless  as  the  desert  sand. 
When  scentless  droop  the  lily  and  the  rose. 
Then  is  thy  "  mountain  atmosphere  of  mind." 
Thy  steadfast  quietude  of  heart  and  hand, 
An  oasis  of  luminous  repose. 


[56] 


RONDEAUS    IN    A    LIBRARY 

I 

FRIENDS  we  can  claim  who  neither  change  nor  die, 
Who  rouse,  who  cheer,  who  soothe,  who  satisfy  : 
Whether  true  knight,  or  monkish  chronicler, 
Saint  who  loved  bird  and  beast,  bold  voyager, 
A  slave  of  low  estate,  an  Emperor  high. 

Courtier  or  peasant,  each  must  justify 
His  right  to  enter  here,  must  not  belie 
Eame's  choice,  till  called  by  Time,  (stern  arbiter  !) 

Friends  we  can  claim. 

Yet  from  this  treasure  wantonly  we  fly  ! 
Nor  list  these  voices  brotherly  that  cry  ! 
We  stumble  on,  and  newer  gods  prefer; 
The  best  is  here,  the  great  Past's  messenger, 
But  with  impatient  sigh  we  still  deny 

Friends  we  can  claim ! 


[57] 


RONDEAUS    IN    A    LIBRARY 


II 

THE    ENGLISH    POETS 

Bird  choristers  thrive  in  this  fair  domain, 
Here  happy  warblers  trill,  and  doves  complain, 
Larks  soar  and  sing,  a  "  moon-tranced  nightingale  " 
Floods  for  one  short-lived  hour  the  breathless  vale, 
And  pensive  pewees  sound  a  thoughtful  strain ; 

Here  graceful  mocking-birds  true  voices  feign, 
Here  thrushes  in  the  wood  high  notes  attain 
Of  rich  cathedral  music,  all  —  we  hail 

Brave  choristers  ! 

There  is  one  songster  holds  supremest  reign, 
And  when  he  sings,  then  other  songs  are  vain, 
Before  his  harmonies  all  rivals  pale  : 
It  seems  as  if  the  tenderest  birdling  frail 
Lodged  in  an  eagle's  breast;  of  joy,  of  pain 

Chief  chorister  ! 


[58] 


RONDEAUS    IN    A    LIBRARY 


III 

Most  sad  but  true,  there  are  no  friends  so  free 
And  stanch  as  they  who  make  this  silent  plea : 
No  fret  find  here,  no  alienations  dark ; 
Perpetual  youth  is  ours  :   would  you  but  hark 
To  us  —  your  ever  steadfast  comrades  we! 

With  us  you  sail  the  skies,  you  hold  the  key 
That  locks  the  universe,  you  taste  the  tree 
Of  knowledge,  finite  limitations  mark 

Most  sad  but  true. 

And  would  you  know  the  inner  man  you  see  ? 
Ask  him  his  teaching  sage ;  what  melody 
Can  thrill  his  soul ;  what  pilot  steers  his  bark 
To  islands  of  the  Blest ;  his  kindling  spark. 
The  boundless  soul  shrinks  to  its  choice,  decree 

Most  sad  but  true. 


[59] 


ON    THE    LAKE 
(a  summer  day  idyll) 


YOUTH 


(^She  sings) 


A 


WAKEN  with  the  day 
As  glad  as  leaves  in  May ! 
Throw  open  wide  thy  arms  to  greet  the  sun  ! 
O  lift  the  drooping  flowers 
That  waste  the  early  hours, 
"  Awake,  ye  laggards,  for  the  day's  begun  !  " 

And  like  the  morning's  bride, 
All  fresh  and  dewy-eyed, 

O  carol  that  the  world  is  full  of  bliss, 
O  sing  it  sweet  and  near, 
O  sing  it  loud  and  clear, 

"  Was  ever  such  a  morn  as  brave  as  this  !  " 


[60] 


ON   THE    LAKE 

So  many  things  to  love  ! 

Give  thanks  to  One  above, — 
O  let  a  joyous  heart  thy  anthem  be  ! 

So  lavishly  is  given 

The  fairest  gift  of  heaven  — 
Another  perfect  day  He  gives  to  thee ! 


[6.] 


ON    THE    LAKE 


II 


SHADOWS 

i^He  muses) 

At  the  edge  of  the  lake  slow  we  drift,  side  by  side, 

Cleaving  straight   through   the  heart  of  a  pine  tree  we 

glide ; 
Even  crags  cannot  hinder  us,  over  we  slip, 
Lichened  rocks  float  around  us,  and  there  on  the  tip 
Of  the  cedar,  a  phantom  bird  prunes  golden  wings, 

In  the  ripples  he  swings  ! 
Now,  above  and  below  us,  the  tender  young  sheen 
Of  the  willows,  encircling  brown  arches  and  green. 
Making  dim  this  our  covert.     All  hushed  is  our  bower! 
And  your  head  on  my  heart  like  a  wild  apple  flower. 
While  beneath  us  there  quiver  the  blossoms  of  bay, — 
—  Oh,  I  wonder,  if  we  are  the  shadows  or  they  1 


[62] 


ON   THE    LAKE 


III 

REMONSTRANCE 

"  The  gray  is  on  my  brow  : 

Too  old  for  such  as  thou  !  " 
"  O  let  my  arms,  like  summer  chaplets,  bind  !  ** 

"  But  sad  for  me  is  life, 

Not  feast,  but  earnest  strife." 
"  'Mongst  rugged  mountains,  flowering  valleys  wind." 

"  I  cannot  lift  my  voice 

At  daybreak  to  rejoice." 
"  When  birds  are  mated  'tis  not  both  that  sing." 

"  Nay,  I  should  blight  thy  flower. 

Should  squander  thy  youth's  dower." 
"  All  thine  to  waste  what  heritage  I  bring !  " 

"  As  transient  as  the  May 

Young  love  will  pass  away." 
"  When  May  is  over,  August  still  is  fair." 

"Soon  will  November  come  — 

Ah,  autumn  chills  benumb  !" 
"  But  glows  the  hearth  more  warm  in  winter  bare." 

[63] 


ON    THE    LAKE 

"Youth  should  find  mate  with  youth: 

Illusion  and  stern  truth 
Have  never  yet  kept  friendship  well,  I  fear." 

"  Ah,  see  that  oak  tree  strong, 

It  proves  thee  in  the  wrong. 
The  happy  blue-eyed  grass  has  clustered  near. 

"  Yield,  Dear  my  Love,  to  me 

Thy  summer  let  me  be  — 
Long  years  of  summer  that  will  never  fade ; 

Though  this  first  joy  may  go. 

Sing  will  my  heart,  I  know. 
If  it  find  nest  within  the  oak  tree's  shade." 


[64] 


ON    THE   LAKE 


IV 

NOON 

i^She  sings) 

Come  from  the  sun,  O  you  silly  little  water-flies  ! 
Here's  a  great  o'erhanging  ledge,  just  for  you  'tis  hewn  ! 
Darting  so  ceaselessly,  flashing  so  restlessly, 
Can  you  never  pause  to  nap,  a  summer  afternoon  ? 

Come  from  the  sun,  O  you  wilted  yellow  lily-head  ! 
Here's  a  cool  broad  lily-pad,  under  which  to  swoon, 
Vie  not  with  the  golden  sun,  futile  competitions  shun, 
All  but  he  should  take  a  nap,  a  summer  afternoon. 

Come  from  the  sun,  O  you  giddy-pated  humming  bird  ! 
Here's  a  mass  of  honeysuckle,  fragrant  as  the  June. 
Nay,  flutter  hitherward,  not  away  thitherward. 
Foolish  little  humming  bird,  humming  in  the  noon. 

Let  down  the  curtains  of  your  eyes,  O  my  tired  one, 
Drowsily  I'll  sing  to  you,  any  lazy  thing  to  you, 
Happy  could  I  bring  to  you,  dream  of  silver  moon, 
Coolest  dream  I'd  wing  to  you,  this  summer  afternoon. 

[65] 


ON    THE    LAKE 


AFTERNOON 


{^She  sings) 


Hush,  hush,  O  crickets  shrill ! 

Waving  grasses,  hush  them  still, 

Murmur  sleepily,  like  trees. 

Grasses  !   in  this  elfin  breeze. 
For  my  Love  lies  deep  in  slumber, 
Sweetest  moments  v^^ould  I  number. 
And  would  only  have  him  wake  again  to  greet  the  setting 
sun. 

Quiet,  quiet,  noisy  rill ! 
Muffling  mosses,  soothe  it  still ! 
Placid  water-cresses  lull  it 
Quiet  as  the  gold  fish  swimmeth. 
Quiet  as  the  lake-edge  brimmeth, 

For  my  Love  lies  deep  in  slumber, 

Sweetest  moments  would  I  number. 

And  would  only  have  him  wake  again  to  greet  the  setting 
sun. 

[66] 


ON    THE    LAKE 

Peace,  peace,  O  bumble-bee  ! 

Drop  not  here  your  velvet  ball, 

Back  to  shore,  O  rover  free. 

Where  the  honev  flowers  c:;Il, 

Waiting  for  your  coronal ! 
Here  my  Love  lies  deep  in  slumber, 
Sweetest  moments  would  I  number. 
And  would  only  have  him  wake  again  to  greet  the  setting 
sun. 


Gently,  gently,  fretting  bird  ! 
Breaking  through  the  boughs. 
Find  your  swinging  nest  unheard  ! 
Fold  your  wings  !     Soft  sleep  endows 
Even  black  unwinking  eyes, 
Shut  them  close  and  dream  of  skies 
Deep  and  blue  and  zephyr-stirred ; 

For  my  Love  lies  here  in  slumber, 

Sweetest  moments  would  I  number. 

And  would  only  have  him  wake  again  to  greet  the  setting 
sun. 

—  The  sultry  summer  sun, 
Whose  course  is  almost  run, 

—  Awake  !  —  Awake  !      My  dearest  one  ! 

[67] 


ON    THE    LAKE 

Purl  your  loudest,  little  brook! 

Shrill  your  songs,  O  crickets  now  ! 

Leap,  O  fishes  !      Ripple,  lake  ! 

Little  black-eyed  bird,  awake  ! 

Bumble-bee,  your  sweets  forsake  ! 

Scatter  blossoms,  laurel  bough ! 
For  my  Love  has  waked  from  slumber, 
(Sweet  those  moments  will  I  number  !) 
For  my  dearest  Love  has  raised  his  head  to  greet  the 
setting  sun. 


[68] 


ON   THE   LAKE 


VI 

AT    TWILIGHT 

{^He  sings) 

I,  to  whom  Love  has  tarried  long  in  coming, 
Faint-hearted  grown,  I  meet  him  now  with  fear; 
Loud  is  his  knock,  I  dare  not  open  to  him ; 
True  is  his  voice,  but  questioning,  I  hear. 

Once,  long  ago,  I  thought  that  I  could  claim  Love, 
Opened  wide  my  portals,  too  soon  called  him  mine ; 
Fled  he  my  threshold,  fled,  ah,  who  shall  blame  Love  ! 
Prisoned  in  a  hemlock,  hamadryads  pine. 

"  Knock  gently.  Love,  and  silent  take  possession, 
Lift  up  the  latch,  with  courage  enter  here  ! 
I,  to  whom  thou  hast  tarried  long  in  coming. 
Faint-hearted  grown,  I  welcome  thee  with  fear." 


[69] 


ON   THE    LAKE 


VII 


LOVE-LATE-IN-LIFE 


(^She  sings  in  the  moonlight) 

Sometimes  a  day 
Comes,  dull  and  bleak, 
Sunless  and  gray 
As  moorland  creek  : 

O  gray  and  bleak ! 

But  late  toward  eve 
A  glow  will  spread  :  — 
Pomegranates  cleave. 
Gold  heart  and  red  : 

O  gold  and  red ! 

A  glorious  surge 
Will  flood  the  sky. 
From  dimmest  verge 
To  zenith  high 

Will  flood  the  sky ; 

[70] 


ON   THE    LAKE 

Nor  any  cloud 
Will  mar  the  gold, 
Intense  and  proud 
The  crimsons  hold  : 

O  red  and  gold ! 

Bright  days  of  sun 
Have  pageants  too, 
Whose  colors  run 
The  gamut  through  : 

Each  gleaming  hue  ! 

None  can  outvie 
In  depth  and  glow 
A  late-lit  sky  ! 
Ah,  few  can  know 

Such  depth  and  glow ! 

So  long  doth  last 
The  wondrous  light, 
When  eve  is  past 
Still  burns  the  night : 

O  rarest  light ! 


[7>] 


STONEHENGE 


(C 


O 


HAUNTING  symbol  deeper  than  the  East, 
Than  Grecian  temple,  or  dim  Gothic  nave, 
What  couldst  thou  tell  of  life  in  wood  and  cave, 
The  worship  of  the  sun,  the  Druid  feast ! 
Who  was  thy  mighty  builder  ?     Who  thy  priest  ?  " 
Rugged,  austere,  they  never  answer  gave 
Through  centuries  of  calm,  these  boulders  grave. 
This  silent  tomb  of  some  great  Soul  released  ! 

Amid  wide  reaches  or  fair  field  and  fell. 
Hearing  the  tinkle  of  the  lazy  sheep, 
Breathing  the  fragrance  of  the  yellow  bloom. 
The  far  Past  lays  his  stern  undying  spell 
Upon  my  spirit,  and  petty  cravings  sleep  : 
Infinitude  holds  here  grim  strife  with  doom. 


[72] 


THE  POET'S   VISITANT 

THOU,  half  asleep,  swayed  by  the  deep 
Flowing  waters  of  thought  on  an  unexplored  sea, 
Drifts  a  white  sail,  greets  thee  —  "  All  hail  ! 
Poet-for-me  !  " 


Welcome  thy  guest,  give  of  thy  best ! 
This  ambassador  sent  from  a  king  of  high  spheres 
Thrills  with  his  touch,  rapture  is  such 
Moves  he  to  tears. 

As  when  in  dreams,  falling  one  seems, 
With  a  start  one  awakes  from  a  world  far  away, 
Back  from  delight,  back  to  the  night 
Wide-eyed,  astray  j 

So  when  he  flies,  ecstasy  dies, 

Thou  canst  lisp  but  a  hint  of  the  bliss  thou  wouldst  tell 
Jungfrau  aglow.  .  .      Gray  fades  the  snow  .  .  . 
Eve  rings  the  knell. 
[73] 


THE    POET'S    VISITANT 

Leaves  he  in  wake,  what  we  mistake 
For  a  poem,  oh,  soulless  and  blind  that  we  arc  ! 
Shorn  of  its  bloom,  cold  as  the  tomb. 
Light-lacking  star. 

Bud  without  scent,  passion  that's  spent. 
All  —  that  is  flitting  and  fleeting  and  fair. 
Dew  that  the  sun  captured  and  spun 
Crystal  as  air. 

Comes  he  again  ?     None  can  say  when ; 
Unexpected,  infrequent,  this  haphazard  guest : 
Fitful  his  choice,  follow  his  voice. 

Stern  though  the  quest ! 

Rain's  tinted  bow  hides  deep  below 

The  dim  base  of  its  radiant  joy-colored  arch, 

Treasures  that  lure  men  to  endure 

Hot  sands  that  parch  j 

Vanquished  ?      Ah,  no  !    onward  they  go 
All  their  lives  in  a  search  for  this  deep-hidden  mine; 
Counterfeits  scorn  ;  wait  for  a  morn 
Splendent,  divine. 
[74] 


A   BUTTRESS   NICHE 

LL  may  not  reach  the  topmost  niche  in  Art, 
Nor  all  the  keystone  of  the  portal  crown. 
Still,  in  the  lofty  minster  of  renown 
Are  shrines  well  worthy  of  the  striving  heart. 
Fair  shrines  there  are  on  pinnacles  apart. 
Holding  their  king  or  saint  in  palmer's  gown, 
Unnoticed,  till  some  passer  of  the  town 
On  looking  upward,  cries,  "  O  happy  Art !  " 

Whereon  he  dreams  of  long  past  joyous  days. 
When  work  was  noble  for  itself  alone, 
Each  leaf  in  shadow  chiselled  keen  and  fine 
As  leaf  in  sunlight ;  sadly  then  he  prays 
With  the  deep  yearning  to  the  artist  known  — 
"  Ah,  might  a  nameless  buttress  niche  be  mine  !  " 


[75] 


A    DEATH-BED    THOUGHT 

FOR  though  it  be  not  given  me  to  know 
Whither  I  go, 
Though  here  on  earth  be  not  for  me  to  find 

Peace  both  for  heart  and  mind, — 
Fond  heart  that  claims  a  sentient  God  its  own, 

Cold  mind,  aloof,  alone. 
Seeking  with  hollow  eyes  a  phantom,  truth ; 

(Age  all  as  blind  as  youth  !  ) 
Fond  heart  that  cries,  "  Peace,  peace,  O  restless  brain. 

Why  mysteries  profane  ? 
Yield  to  His  love,  submission  brings  repose  j 

A  flowering  rose 
Is  faith,  a  wounding  nettle,  doubt !  " 

Yet,  O  my  soul, 

'Tis  under  your  control 
To  sink  in  rest  or  soar.     Arise  !     To  strife  ! 

Through  death  to  Life  ? 

Through  death  to  Life  ! 


[76] 


SHAN   VAN   VOCHT 


THERE'S  a  land  over  seas  that  I  love,  'tis  to  me 
Scarcely  known,  but  as  dear  as  to  field-lark  the  lea, 
And  its  song-notes  can  thrill  me  as  no  songs  can  do, 
For  its  harp-strings  have  musical  magic,  and  woo 
To  this  land  over  seas  — 
Shan  van  vocht. 


Fontenoy  is  for  me  as  a  trumpet's  arouse, 
'Ninety-eight  holds  me  true  as  with  firmest  of  vows. 
Oh,  with  links  strong  as  iron,  with  chains  light  as  gold, 
I  am  bound  to  the  land  of  my  forefathers  bold, 
To  the  land  over  seas  — 
Shan  van  vocht ! 


[77] 


SHAN    VAN    VOCHT 


When  an  echo  rings  clear  then  I  dream  of  Dunloe, 
And  where  rivulets  run  of  Avoca's  sweet  flow, 
But  the  Boyne  is  the  dearest  !      O  stream  of  my  heart, 
Is  it  strange  that  you  haunted  an  exile  apart 
From  his  land  over  seas  — 
Shan  van  vocht  ? 


[78] 


THE   CLERK   OF   LIMBURG 

BACK  in  days  of  old,  the  Middle  Ages, 
Once  there  rose  a  certain  sprightly  music, 
Far  and  wide  rang  out  a  merry  singing. 
Praised  by  all,  but  nameless  was  the  maker 

Of  the  ballads. 


Youth  and  age  together  trilled  and  warbled. 
Such  a  piping  of  gay  songs  and  measures  ! 
Airy  chants  of  glee  and  gladness  sounded 
Over  Germany,  with  ceaseless  carols 

Night  and  morning. 

Surely,  thought  the  maids  with  bashful  eyelids, 
Humming  ditties  of  sweet  love  and  rapture, 
Surely,  debonair  must  be  the  songster, 
With  a  lute  hung  o'er  his  velvet  mantle  ! 

Might  we  see  him  ! 

[79] 


THE    CLERK    OF    LIMBURG 

Unknown  in  the  street  they  passed  the  minstrel, 
He  who  made  for  them  the  blithesome  verses; 
Shuddering  they  passed  him,  gaunt  and  woful. 
For  the  nameless  minstrel  was  a  leper. 

Shunned,  forsaken. 

Shrouded  in  his  cloak  of  gray  all  sombre. 
Sounding  his  dread  lazar  bell  for  warning. 
While  the  land  rang  with  his  joyous  music. 
Wandered  that  young  clerk,  alone  and  mirthless. 

Broken-hearted. 


Death-in-life  he  went  !     The  rosy  maidens 
Checked  their  songs  and  shivered  as  he  passed  them; 
Comely  mothers  crooning  to  their  infants 
Caught  them  to  their  breasts  in  sudden  terror, 

Lest  he  harm  them. 


Saddest  of  all  tales,  I  think  that  leper's  : 
With  a  heart  for  love  and  feast  and  gladness, 
Still  to  go  through  life,  a  banished  outcast, 
Peering  in  each  passing  face  for  welcome 

Never  given. 

[80] 


DETACHMENT 


ONE  hour  I  soar,  with  buoyant  life  content, 
The  next,  an  Icarus  with  broken  wing, 
Through  ways  of  mist  and  dreary  fog  I  creep. 
One  hour  of  Spring's  glad  joyousness,  I  sing. 
Of  fleeting  blossoms.  Winter  still  must  weep. 
Of  rainbow  radiance,  so  swiftly  spent ! 
Why  ever  soar  in  vain  ?     'Tis  well  to  sleep. 
With  dim  unseeing  eyes  through  life  to  stray ; 
Jaded  and  thwarted,  what  avails  this  fray  ? 
Ascent  but  makes  the  fall  more  swift  and  deep. 


For  I  had  found  in  wandering  to  and  fro, 
A  friend  to  whom  I  told  my  inmost  thought ; 
I  fancied,  here  at  length  is  tranquil  rest : 
Till  in  his  garden  where  calm  peace  was  sought 
I  came  unto  a  wall,  obscure,  unguessed, 
For  me  impassable,  a  wall  to  show 

[81] 


DETACHMENT 

The  past  between  us,  vain  pretence  at  best. 
Then  friendship  seemed  to  me  a  hollow  reed 
On  which  we  blindly  lean  in  hour  of  need, 
And  love  —  a  Grail  of  fruitless  bitter  quest. 


And  since  a  restless,  baffled  day  had  killed 
All  sleep,  I  rose  to  watch  the  placid  moon 
Serenely  smile  on  millions  such  as  I. 
Unmoved  she  hears  complaint  or  cheerful  tune  ! 
This  same  unfeeling  moon  now  looks  on  high, 
Naveless  Beauvais,  sad  type  of  unfulfilled 
Great  destinies  ;  this  self-same  heartless  sky 
Bent  over  Herculaneum,  when  roared 
The  rocking  mountain,  belching  death  abroad, 
And  startled  revellers  fled  with  frighted  cry. 


Heartless  she  seemed,  and  therein  lay  the  balm  ! 

For  as  I  gazed  I  felt  the  iron  power 

Of  Nature's  pitiless,  relentless  sway 

Bring  back  lost  strength  and  quietude  :  to  cower 

[82] 


DETACHMENT 

Because  the  skies  were  overcast  and  gray 

Was  a  poor  craven's  part.      Down  dropped  clear  calm 

From  the  impassive  moon  to  light  my  way, 

And  with  a  happy  confidence,  I  knew 

Myself  a  thing  as  frail  as  morning  dew, 

A  passing  moment  in  Time's  endless  Day. 


[83] 


TRUMPETS   AND   BELLS 

Charles  VIII.      I  will  sound  my  trumpets  ! 
Capponi,      We  will  ring  our  bells  ! 

Florence,  1491. 

I 

WILL  sound  my  trumpets," 
Cries  the  World  with  pride  — 
"  Deaden  pity  in  the  heart, 
Take  the  stronger  side  ; 
All  shall  smile  and  feel  no  joy. 

Weep,  and  share  no  pain  ; 
One  stern  law  shall  rule  the  throng. 
One  grim  judge  arraign." 

Answer  brave,  ye  voices, 

Firm,  intrepid,  true, 
(Not  the  Many  spur  mankind. 

But  the  gallant  Few) 
"  Raise  we  then  our  heads  on  high, 

Serve  as  sentinels  ! 
Blow  your  trumpets  to  the  sky. 

We  will  rinff  our  bells  !  " 

[84] 


TRUMPETS   AND    BELLS 


II 

"  I  will  sound  my  trumpets," 

Cries  out  "  Captain  111," 
Laying  siege  unto  the  fort 

Perched  upon  the  hill  — 
"  Summon  all  my  vassals  mean. 

Range  my  serfs  in  line, 
Vanquish  in  the  end  this  queen. 

Desecrate  this  shrine." 

Ring  out  clear  the  answer, 

Give  it  gladsome  voice, 
As  in  that  sweet  Tuscan  town 

Liberty  made  choice  : 
" '  Captive  Good  '  is  free  at  last. 

Strong  her  citadels. 
Stout  her  gates.     Blow  wide  your  blast ! 

We  will  ring  our  bells  !  " 


[85] 


TRUMPETS   AND    BELLS 


III 

"  I  will  sound  my  trumpets," 

Cries  the  Winter  loud  — 
"  Wrap  the  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas 

In  perpetual  shroud ; 
Stiffen  cataracts  down  the  clifF, 

Chill  the  bird  on  wing. 
Freeze  the  mariner  in  his  skifF, 

Bury  deep  the  Spring." 

Listen  for  the  answer 

Underneath  the  snow ; 
Tinkling  comes  a  murmur, 

Muffled,  faint,  and  low  : 
"  You  may  blow  your  trumpets," 

Soft  the  snow-drop  swells, 
"You  may  blow  your  trumpets  — 

We  will  ring  our  bells  !  " 


[86] 


TRUMPETS   AND    BELLS 


IV 

"  I  will  sound  my  trumpets," 

Cries  the  tyrant  Death  — 
"Serried  ranks  of  all  degrees 

Mow  down  with  my  breath. 
Wreck  and  war  my  henchmen  are, 

Planets  can  I  blight 
Even  as  I  blast  a  star 

In  empyreal  flight." 

Hearken  to  the  voices 

Born  this  day  on  earth  :  — 
"  Far  in  chaos  strife  has  raged. 

Victory  for  Birth  ! 
Other  stars  will  course  the  skies. 

Life,  Death's  fate  foretells." 
"  I  will  sound  my  trumpets !  " 

"  We  will  ring  our  bells  !  " 


[87] 


A    POET   ON    HIS    MISTRESS'    BLUSH 

DEEP  in  a  wood,  low  in  a  glen, 
Rises  from  quartz-rock  a  spring. 
Twin-flowers  flush,  mirrored  there.      Hush  ! 
Quivers  a  cardinal  wing  — 
Herald  of  joy  ! 

First  blush  of  love,  shy  as  a  dove. 
Dawns  not  more  rosy  and  fleet 

Close  trembling  near,  dew-like,  a  tear. 
Preluding  sunrise.      O  sweet 
Herald  of  joy  ! 

Harbinger  rare  !    thou  dost  prepare 
Way  from  my  sovereign  to  me. 

Yet  shall  I  sigh,  greater  bliss  nigh, 

First  blush  of  rapture  !   for  thee  — 
Herald  of  joy  ! 


[88] 


INSOMNIA;    COMPENSATIONS 

IF  I  had  slept,  I  should  not  know  so  well 
The  poets,  nor  that  poignant  sweetness  heard, 
"  The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  bird." 
Of  waxing,  waning  moon,  of  sunrise  spell. 
The  poet  voice  is  always  here  to  tell, 
But  I  myself  must  learn  his  inner  word. 
Sleep  from  my  brain  one  mighty  form  had  blurred  — 
Majestic  Blanc,  arising  gaunt  and  fell, 

"  O  struggling  luith  the  darkness  all  the  nighty 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars.'' 

Nay,  had  calm  rest  been  mine,  I  had  not  known 
That  moment,  when,  from  picturing  sheep  that  crept 
"  One  after  one,"  I  suddenly  awoke 
To  day's  glad  sounds,  the  rumbling  wheel,  the  stroke 
Of  noon  ;   from  haggard  darkness,  worn,  alone. 
To  cry  with  keen  delight  —  Ah,  I  have  slept  ! 

"  Sleep  that  knits  up  the  raveW d  sleave  of  care.   .   .   . 
Balm  of  hurt  minds.    .   .   .    Chief  nourisher  in  life's 
feast !  " 

[89] 


TENNYSON'S    CHILD 

HILE   a  comet  flamed  the  midnight  heavens, 
One  of  England's  truest  poets  rose, 
Roused  his  sleeping  son  from  childhood's  perfect 

Deep  repose, 

Wrapt  him  in  his  arms  against  the  darkness, 
Loath  to  startle,  fain  would  have  him  see ; 
Straight  the  little  child  from  drovi^sy  dreamland 

Wide  and  free, 

Waked  beneath  the  boundless  vault  of  heaven, 
Saw  the  trailing  comet-light  on  high  — 
Nature's  miracle  of  law's  perfection 

In  the  sky  :  — 

Lifting  eyes  of  wonder  to  his  father. 
Eyes  that  knew  and  loved  the  noble  head 
Bent  above  him,  marvelling  he  whispered  — 

"Am  I  dead?" 
[90] 


TENNYSON'S    CHILD 

Child  of  genius,  you  have  praised  your  Maker 
Better  than  the  mightiest  hymns  of  man, 
Pierced  the  husk  that  hides  the  fruiting  promise 

Of  His  plan : 

When  the  dull  earth  upward  casts  her  shadow, 
Through  the  twilight  of  the  world  man  goes. 
Still  o'erhead  a  cloudlet  holds  the  rose  tint ; 

Childhood  knows. 


C91] 


THE    RETURN    TO    HEALTH 

AFIELD  of  poppies  swaying  in  the  breeze, 
A  flood  of  rapture  bursting  from  the  heart, 
Springtime  atop  the  newly  budded  trees, 
O  Hfe,  life,  life,  what  is  it  that  thou  art  ! 
A  choir  of  snow-peaks  antheming  on  high. 
The  rush  of  waves  and  ripples  up  the  shore. 
Great  billowy  clouds  that  sweep  across  the  sky, 
The  onward  roll  of  rivers  evermore, 
A  whirl  of  birds  whose  throats  rain  ecstasy. 
More  wild,  more  sweet,  O  life,  art  thou  to  me  ! 

Ah  once,  this  joyous  life  deserted  me. 

And  down  the  narrow  path  I  watched  him  stray. 

My  outstretched  arms  implored,  he  would  not  stay. 

But  heedless  left  me,  wan  and  ashen  gray. 

Alone  to  face  the  darkness  and  the  strife. 

'Twas  then  I  knew  how  sweet  was  life,  was  life  ! 

'Twas  then  I  cried,  "A  treacherous  friend  thou  art 

To  woo  my  love,  and  having  won,  depart." 


THE    RETURN    TO    HEALTH 

And  from  the  boundless  waters  we  call  death, 
There  crept  around  me  close  an  icy  breath, 
And  slowly,  slowly  ebbed  my  tide  away. 

But  life  came  back  !     This  glorious,  gladsome  life  ! 

Bubbling  with  laughter,  rippling  o'er  with  glee, 

Tossing  his  flower-like  head  in  jubilee. 

Springing  across  the  tender  turf  as  free 

As  fawn  or  hamadryad  stepped  of  old, 

Laden  with  joys,  with  promises  untold. 

Glad  life  came  back,  glad  life  came  back  to  me  ! 

A  field  of  poppies  swaying  in  the  breeze, 

A  flood  of  rapture  bursting  from  the  heart. 

Springtime  atop  the  newly  budded  trees, 

O  life,  life,  life,  what  is  it  that  thou  art ! 

A  choir  of  snow-peaks  antheming  on  high. 

The  rush  of  waves  and  ripples  up  the  shore. 

Great  billowy  clouds  that  sweep  across  the  sky, 

The  onward  roll  of  rivers  evermore, 

A  whirl  of  birds  whose  throats  rain  ecstasy. 

More  wild,  more  sweet,  O  life,  art  thou  to  me ! 


[93] 


LOST    IDEALS 

AS  in  far  days  the  priests  of  Isis  brought 
A  carved  and  gilded  ship  unto  the  shore, 
And  loaded  it  with  spice,  and  pearls,  and  ore, 
Then  with  fair  hymns,  this  service  having  wrought, 
Across  the  harbor  bar  the  wide  sea  sought, 
Where  they,  their  votive  ship,  left  in  the  roar 
Of  breakers,  lonely  ghost  ne'er  heard  of  more. 
Wan  spectre  drifting  in  a  search  for  naught : 

So,  eager  youth  sets  sail  a  valiant  heart 
Freighted  with  gifts  of  dauntless  faith,  with  gold 
Of  love,  to  find  he  hopes  a  happy  mart. 
Will  he,  white-vested  priest,  like  those  of  old, 
Desert  his  treasure  ship,  let  it  depart 
Unpiloted,  by  stormy  seas  controlled  ? 


[94] 


ONCE   ON   A   TIME 

(a  rondeau) 

,NCE  on  a  time  "  are  magic  words  for  me  ! 
They  sing  of  small  glass  slippers,  Bluebeard's  key, 
Babes  in  a  wood,  a  prince  and  princess  fair, 
Ogres  and  goblins,  Two-shoes,  Silver-hair, 
And  one  lone  duckling  of  swan  pedigree. 

And  deep  within  this  realm  of  Fancy  Free, 
Where  men  are  ruled  by  famous  laws  of  three. 
That  unknown  thing  —  a  chimney-sweep,  could  scare, 

Once  on  a  time. 

There,  in  calm  peace,  good  folk  kept  jubilee. 
And  when  they  died  then  far  across  the  sea 
To  some  half  vague  and  sweet  land,  debonair, 
Called  Greece  they  went,  and  laid  in  ashes  were, 
A  land  that  beckoned  fair  to  you  and  me 

Once  on  a  time. 


[95] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

(ONE    ACT) 


[97] 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

Henri  de  la  Rochejaquelein,  commander-in-chief  of  the  army 

of  the  Vendee. 
Stofflet,  a  gamekeeper,  a  general  in  his  army. 
Lagrange  and  Texier,  peasant-soldiers  in  his  army. 
M.  JouRDAiN,  a  celebrated  scholar,  also  a  physician. 
Lorraine,  his  daughter. 


[98] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

[Scene:  the  town  of  Bressuire  —  January^  1794-  ^^ 
night  in  the  house  of  Jourdain;  in  a  room  lined  with 
hooks  the  white-haired  scholar  is  seated  near  a  lamp^  read- 
ing. At  a  little  distance  his  daughter  sits  in  a  high  arm- 
chair^ her  lute  in  her  lap.'\ 

Lorraine  \_sings  to  herself  ] . 

Eyes  blue  as  paradise, 

Wheat-yellow  hair, 
Shy  as  a  girl  who  sighs. 

Comely  and  fair. 

Taught  at  his  mother's  knee, 

God  and  the  king, 
Lives  he  for  honor  free. 

He  whom  we  sing  ! 

[99] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

Cries  he,  "  O  follow  me, 

Who  loves  me  true!  " 
Cry  we,  "  M'sieur  Henri, 

Die  we  for  you !  " 

JouRDAiN.      Cease,  cease,  Lorraine  !      Must  I  repeat 
my  words 
Again  and  yet  again  ?      Forget  these  songs. 
Thou  art  no  longer  in  thy  convent,  child. 
But  in  thy  father's  house,  and  here  the  name 
Of  royalist  is  never  heard.     Forget 
The  nonsense  taught  thee  by  the  nuns. 

'Tis  strange 
You  women  ever  take  the  noble's  side. 
Tinsel  and  glitter  lure  your  weaker  minds. 

\He  again  reads. 

Lorraine  [^  moment  later  sings  thoughtlessly'^ . 

Eyes  blue  as  paradise, 

Wheat-yellow  hair. 
Shy  as  a  girl  who  sighs, 

Comely  and  fair. 

Stately  young  paladin. 
Gallant  and  just  — 
[loo] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

[Loud  knocking  without.  Jourdain  rises^  takes  a 
light^  and  goes  towards  a  door  which  is  seen  in  the 
distance  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  Lorraine  fol- 
/ijzc'i",  and  stands  concealed  by  the  portiere.'^ 

Jourdain.    Who  knocks  at  such  an  hour  ? 

Stofflet    \without~\ .    Is  this  the  house 
Of  Jourdain  the  physician  ? 

Jourdain.  Yes,  his  house, 

What  would  you  here  ?      Why  rouse  you  peaceful  folk 
In  this  late  night,  like  wandering  vagabonds  ? 

\^He  throws  open  a  window  beside  the  door  and  holds 
up  his  light  to  examine  the  strangers^ 

Stofflet.    Here's  one,  sore  hurt,  who  needs  your  aid, 
good  sir. 
Fear  not,  we  bear  no  arms.     I  pray  you,  open. 
Though  peasants,  we  can  pay  you  well. 

Jourdain.  What  cares 

Jourdain  for  paltry  coin  !      The  day  is  past 
Since  gold  has  bought  my  skill !      Peasants,  you  say  \ 
With  money  in  your  purses  ?      Ho,  a  rough 
Suspicious  crew  you  look.      Raise  up  your  heads. 
Show  me  the  wounded  man.  —  Come.      Enter  in  ! 

\He  gruffly  unbars  the  door.  Enter  Henri  de 
LA    RocHEjAQUELEiN,   disguised  as   a  peasant-^ 

[lOl] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEjAOUELEIN 

Stofflet  ;     and     Lagrange,    who     supports 
Texier.     Lorraine  returns  to  the  library.^ 

Henri  \impulsively^ .     Your  deed  is  kinder  than  your 

words,  in  truth  ! 
Jourdain.    O  ho,  my  stripling,  you  would  make  me 
kind  ? 
Then  save  your  breath  !      Kindness  and  all  such  play 
I  leave  to  weak  aristocrats.      I  let 
You  enter  here,  because  I  have  the  power 
To  set  your  broken  bones.     But  kindness  —  Ho  ! 

[Jourdain,  in  closing  the  luindow^  pauses  to  listen 
as  a  troop  of  horsemen  pass  in  the  street  beneath^ 
with  a  rattle  of  musketry. '\ 

Still  after  the  young  Brigand  !  Soon,  I  trust. 
The  scoundrel  hangs  on  high,  and  such  as  he 
Who  harry  loyal  citizens.     Come,  come. 

\He  leads  the  way  to  an  inner  room,  Henri  is 
going  with  the  others.,  when  Stofflet  grasps  his 
arm.^ 

Stofflet.    M'sieur  Henri,  I  pray  you  follow  not ! 
You  heard  his  words.      Go  not  within.     This  risk 

[102] 


HENRI   DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

You  run  is  rash,  against  all  will  of  mine. 
Stay  here  with  me  and  guard  the  door. 

Henri.  Stofflet, 

You  mind  me  of  our  host,  who  growls,  but  does 
His  duty  valiantly.     No,  let  me  go. 
I  would  bring  Texier  courage  in  his  pain. 

Stofflet.    M'sieur  Henri,  your  life  is  our  last  hope. 

Henri.    Ah,  bitter  flattery  ! 

Lorraine  [within  the  library^  sings  to  herself^ . 

Taught  at  his  mother's  knee, 

God  and  the  King, 
Lives  he  for  honor  free. 

He  whom  we  sing ! 


Cries  he,  "  O  follow  me. 
Who  loves  me  true  !  " 

Cry  we,  "  M'sieur  Henri, 
Die  we  for  you  !  " 

Peasant  or  noble  leads, 

He  who  is  best. 
Each  feels  his  country's  need, 

iVlerit,  our  test. 
[103] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

Rugged  our  land  may  seem, 

Rocky  Bocage, 
Love  we  each  ford  and  stream  — 


^She  sees   Henri  at  the   open  portiere^  and  drops 
her  lute.~\ 

Henri   \_advances'^.      Forgive    my    boldness    in    thus 
entering  here 
Unbidden,  gentle  maid.      But  I  was  led 
By  what  you  sang.      For  I  did  think  my  host 
Jourdain,  the  famous  scholar,  known  throughout 
The  Vendee  land  as  firm  Republican, 
The  stanch  friend  of  the  Blues. 

Lorraine.  A  moment  past 

My  father  chided  me  for  my  poor  song  ! 

Henri.    'Twas  only  for  its  music  that  you  sang  ? 
The  words,  the  meaning,  these  were  naught  to  you  ? 

Lorraine.     It  seems  disloyal  here,  beneath  his  roof, 
To  differ  from  my  father.      Yet  I  must. 
The  only  leniency  that  I  can  crave 
Is  that  I  lived  among  the  nuns  at  Mans, 
And  find  myself  almost  a  stranger  here : 
I  fear  I  shall  off'end  you  when  I  say, 
Alas,  I  love  the  words  beyond  the  tune. 

[104] 


HENRI    DE   LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

Henri.    Then   he  they  call  "  Monsieur  Henri "   for 
you 
Is  not  a  brigand  ? 

Lorraine.     A  name  the  Blues  may  give ! 
But  all  my  ballads  call  him  paladin, 
As  valorous  and  just  as  those  of  old. 

Henri.    It  is  the  way  of  ballads  to  extol 
Their  hero.      Why  should  he  be  praised  above 
The  thousands  who  have  left,  as  well  as  he, 
Castle  or  farm,  to  follow  the  true  cause  ? 

Lorraine.    O,  you  have  used  a  word  that  makes  me 
think 
That  you  may  serve  the  lilies  of  our  France, 
You  may  be  Royalist.      I  beg  you  tell 
If  you  are  friend  or  foe  to  our  young  chief. 
Monsieur  Henri  ? 

Henri.  Both   friend  and  foe !     Believe 

Me,  when  I  say,  you  overrate  him  far. 

Lorraine.    Though   I  have  never  seen  him,  still  I 
hold 
He  is  the  very  soul  of  our  Vendee, 
Its  earnest  inspiration,  its  one  hope, 
And  when  he  falls  the  stricken  land  falls  too. 
O,  in  my  convent,  there  we  loved  him  well. 
One  of  my  comrades  had  a  brother,  who 
Had  served  the  cause  throughout  the  sad  campaign 

[>°5] 


HENRI    DE   LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

In  Brittany ;  and  she  could  charm  with  tales 
For  hours  together,  tales  her  brother  told. 
Why,  I  can  sing  you  full  a  dozen  songs, 
A  dozen  ballads  of  Monsieur  Henri. 

[She  snatches  her  lute^  and  sings. "^ 

He  is  fearless. 
He  is  peerless, 

Henri  that  is  ours  ! 
He  our  might  is. 
He  our  knight  is. 

Glad  as  summer  flowers. 


One-and-twenty  smiles  on  him  : 
Days  will  flit  and  days  will  skim, 
Days  will  flee,  for  you  and  me. 
Flashing  eyes  grow  slowly  dim. 
Still  we  raise  our  fervent  hymn, 
Never  rest  a  shadow  grim 
On  M'sieur  Henri. 

Henri.    It  is  his  careless  youth  that  steals  their  love  I 
And  of  what  value,  praise  that's  won  by  youth  ? 
Could  they  withhold  their  loyal  peasant  hearts 

[io6] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

Till  Henri  earned  such  frank  unflattering  trust, 
Ah,  were  there  time,  he  yet  might  prove  a  man. 
For  he  has  been  till  now  a  headstrong  boy. 
Lacking  in  foresight,  judgment,  in  control. 

Lorraine.    Beyond  the  reach  of  carping  idle  words 
My  hero  stands.      You  cannot  sully  him. 

Henri.    I  would  tear  down  your  hero,  but  to  shrine 
One  who  can  claim  this  title  you  ill-use, 
Brave  Cathelineau,  the  gentle  wagoner 
Who  led  us  first,  he  of  the  shining  brow, 
Around  whom  crept  the  wounded,  since  to  die 
Near  the  sweet  saint  of  Anjou  was  a  joy. 
They  tell  how  Cincinnatus  in  his  fields 
Beyond  the  Tiber,  leaning  on  his  spade. 
Received  with  dignity  proud  messengers, 
How  simply  he  did  wipe  his  brow,  and  go 
To  govern  Rome.     As  great,  our  general ! 
He  heard  the  first  stray  shots  of  war,  one  day 
While  kneading  bread ;   he  left  his  homely  task 
And  served  as  chief. 

Lorraine.  Erect  and  slim,  Henri 

First  took  command.      Dauntless  the  eagle  look 
Within  his  eyes  when  to  his  men  he  cried  : 
"  Friends,  were  he  here,  my  father,  you  would  have 
Glad  confidence.      O  may  I  worthy  prove  ! 
When  I  advance,  then  on.      But,  if  I  flinch, 

[■°7] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

Straight  cut  the  craven  down.      And  when  I  fall 
Avenge  me."      And  from  the  great  deserted  court 
Beneath  the  moated  castle  of  his  race, 
Like  his  forefathers  of  the  Crusade  days, 
He  led  his  peasants  forth. 

Henri.  But  none  he  left 

Behind,  to  mourn  his  loss  like  brave  Lescure, 
Who  had  a  wife  he  loved.     From  her,  from  books, 
His  cherished  study,  yet  he  tore  himself; 
And  when  they  burned  his  castle  to  the  ground. 
He  would  not  sack  their  captured  towns,  lest  they. 
The  ruthless  foe,  should  think  it  was  revenge. 
O,  call  Lescure  your  hero,  not  Henri. 
Henri  knew  naught  of  war's  stern  discipline, 
He  led  to  battle  as  he  would  have  led. 
In  peaceful  days,  the  chase.     Not  like  Lescure, 
Well  versed  in  tactics  and  in  stratagems. 

Lorraine.    I  pray  you,  tell  me  more  about  the  men 
Who  love  Monsieur  Henri. 

Henri.  Say  rather,  men 

Whom  Henri  loves,  his  rugged  Vendee  folk. 
Whose  lives  are  passed  in  patriarchal  ways. 
Who  call  their  nobles  Father,  since  no  hand 
Of  grasping  steward  holds  the  guardianship. 
No  pay  in  war  they  claim,  bloodshed  they  hate, 
But  striking  for  the  cause  of  God  and  king, 

[.08] 


HENRI   DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

They  fight  as  tigers.     Strict  they  are,  and  pious, 
Each  doffs  his  cap  before  the  wayside  cross. 
Although  he  pause  amid  an  onward  rush. 
And  when  the  shots  are  heard,  the  women,  maids. 
And  children  kneel  in  every  field,  to  pray 
For  their  brave  men  in  danger.      Oft  'tis  said. 
In  pleasantry,  that  when  you  hear  an  oath. 
Strike  without  doubt,  it  surely  is  a  Blue. 

Lorraine.    Astray  they  seem  in  these  grim  times  of 
ours, 
They  and  their  gallant  Lord  !      They  should  have  lived 
When  good  King  Louis  held  his  saintly  reign. 

Henri.    The  very  children  bear  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  in  the  ranks  are  lads  of  fourteen  years. 
Young  Mondyon  had  scarcely  reached  that  age, 
When,  in  a  vanguard  fight,  near  him  he  saw 
Some  cowardly  lieutenant  quit  his  post: 
"  You  are  not  wounded,  sir,"  he  cried  ;  "  now  if 
You  go,  I'll  shoot  you  through  the  head.      When  we. 
The  leaders,  quail,  we  shame  our  fearless  men." 

Lorraine.    Monsieur  Henri's  true  mettle  !     When  a 
shot 
Once  struck  his  arm,  unmoved  he  kept  command. 
"  Merely  a  broken  thumb,"  he  said,  although. 
Since  then,  his  arm  hangs  useless  in  a  sling. 

Henri.    And  every  man  within  the  ranks  would  do 

[109] 


HENRI    DE   LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

The  same.      Alas,  I  speak  as  if  it  still 
Were  possible !      O  men  that  Henri  loved, 
Who  were  as  his  great  children  —  all,  all  gone. 
And  his  fair  army  broken,  scattered,  lost ! 
Bonchamp  is  gone,  and  noble  Cathelineau, 
Dearest  of  all,  Lescure  !      And  Hermine, 
Who  Bonchamp,  dying,  left  to  Henri's  care. 
The  little  lad  who  rode  upon  his  horse. 
Whose  prattle  cheered  the  men  in  darkest  days. 
Gone,  gone  !      Even  Fallowdeer,  his  delicate 
White  horse,  is  dead. 

Lorraine.    Soon  will  my  ballads  grow 
Too  sad  to  sing. 

[She  sings.'^ 

On  Fallowdeer  he  swept  the  land. 
And  gathered  far  and  wide  each  band. 
Fleet  Fallowdeer  knew  his  command, 
M'sieur  Henri ! 


And  when  he  captured  foemen  bold, 
A  single  combat  each  could  hold. 
For  well  he  loved  the  days  of  old 
And  chivalry. 

[MO] 


HENRI   DE   LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

In  battle's  din  when  flagged  our  side, 
He  seized  his  cap  and  flung  it  wide : 
"  Who'll  fetch  it  for  me  first  ?  "  then  cried 
M'sieur  Henri ; 


And  swift  as  arrow  from  the  bow, 
He  rushed  upon  the  conquering  foe, 
And  as  one  man  we  followed  through 
To  victory. 

"  No  powder  have  we,  woe  betide  !  " 
Right  blithely  he  our  fears  defied  : 
"  The  Blues  have  plenty  of  it !  "  cried 
iVI'sieur  Henri. 


But  I  can  sing  no  more. 
Songs  ring  not  true  unless  the  heart  is  gay. 
A  wanderer  !    Defeat !    Ah,  yet  I  know. 
Even  in  defeat,  when  all  is  lost,  Henri 
Will  bear  a  spirit  that  will  not  be  broken. 

Henri.    But  there  has  come  to  him  in  these  last  days, 
A  resignation,  an  unfailing  portent 
To  tell  the  end  is  close.      He  would  have  chafed 
Against  defeat  like  a  wild  steer,  a  short 

[III] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

Time  since ;   but,  now  I  know  not  how  it  is, 
Of  late  he  has  had  thoughts  that  strengthen  him, 
And  he  has  faced  his  failure.     Though  not  wise. 
Like  his  dear  friend  Lescure,  who  well  could  put 
In  words  his  lightest  thought,  Henri  has  felt 
Perhaps  'tis  for  the  best  his  cause  is  doomed. 
For  when  he  thinks  of  the  long  days  to  come. 
The  stretching  years,  the  untold  centuries. 
When  he  will  count  but  as  a  moment's  space. 
He  tells  himself.  Flash  in  that  moment's  space 
As  bravely  as  you  can,  but  fret  not,  leave 
The  rest  to  God. 

Lorraine.  And  no  regret  he  feels  ? 

Henri.     Regret   he  has   passed   through.      His   sole 
regret 
Is,  now  that  wider  judgment  is  his  own, 
He  cannot  serve  his  needy  land  therewith. 
Unthinking  he  has  led  his  eager  men, 
Belied  himself  by  weak-held  discipline. 
Could  he  be  tried  again,  he  would  be  found 
A  better  general.     Yet,  had  success 
Been  his,  this  patient  creed  would  be  unlearned. 

Lorraine.    You  draw  for  me  a  new  Monsieur  Henri, 
A  Henri  that  the  ballads  sing  not  of. 
O  is  there  none  to  solace  him,  not  one  ? 
He  who  could  win  as  bride  the  noblest  maid 

[I.Z] 


HENRI    DE   LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

In  our  fair  France,  is  there  no  steadfast  maid 
To  cheer  him,  when  his  soul  is  overcast  ? 

Henri.      Too  late  has  Henri  thought  of  gentle  maids, 
And  all  the  unexplored  pure  happiness 
Their  comradeship  could  give.     So  late  almost 
Upon  his  fingers  he  can  count,  the  few 
Sweet  moments  since  his  heart  has  turned  to  one. 
No.    Never  has  a  woman  smiled  on  him. 

Lorraine.   Faithless  I  call  the  friend  who  says  so  false 
A  thing  !     And  you  who  look  as  true  — 

\_She  suddenly  starts.! 

This  fire 
Glows  warm.      I  beg  you  lay  aside  your  cloak. 

[Henri  carelessly  drops  his  cloak  to  the  ground^  ex- 
posing his  right  ar?n  hanging  in  a  sling ;  on  his 
breast  is  sewed  the  badge  of  the  Vendee  army^  a 
red  heart ^ 

Lorraine.  Monsieur  Henri ! 

Henri.  Fain  would  I  spare  you  this. 

I  too  have  learned  how  sad  a  thing  it  is 
To  lose  ideals ;  and  you,  who  cherished  yours 
With  such  intrepid  noble  confidence, 

[■■3] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

To  find,  alas,  this  dire  reality, 

A  poor  shred,  a  mockery  of  what  you  dreamt. 

Monsieur  Henri  most  humbly  craves  forgiveness. 

Lorraine.    'Twas  even  now  I  wondered,  could  there 
be 
Two  Henris  here  in  France,  two  such  as  thou. 

Henri.    O  kindly  maiden,  thou  wilt  make  me  grieve 
To  leave  this  earth  that  hath  no  need  of  me. 
Had  I  not  entered  here  this  night,  to-morrow 
I  would  have  welcomed   death,  my  heart  untrammelled ; 
Now,  life  grows  dear  again. 

Lorraine.  Why  art  thou  sure 

Thy  fate  must  be  so  harsh  ?      Hast  thou  no  hope  ? 

Henri.    None,  none.     For   I    am    hounded    through 
the  land. 
This  bleak  Vendee,  all  burnt  and  desolate. 
Whose  only  music  is  the  moaning  wind. 
And  cries  of  cattle,  homeless  in  the  waste. 
A  wretched  handful  of  our  faithful  men 
Lurk  in  the  forest  of  Vezin,  our  bed 
A  hut  of  withered  boughs.      Each  morn  I  rise, 
I  say.  We  shall  not  look  again  on  this 
Once  fair  Bocage.     No,  no.     It  is  too  late. 

Lorraine.    Monsieur  Henri  knows  not  his  worth,  to 
think 
Our  genial  land  hath  now  no  need  of  him. 

[■■4] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELELN 

Henri.    He  knows  he  must  not  harbor  treacherous 
hope. 
Nay,  I  have  had  a  vision  of  this  end  : 
Last  night  I  tossed  in  pain  and  impotence. 
When  suddenly  above  the  black-massed  hill 
I  saw  a  gleam  of  light :  The  dawn  at  last, 
I  sighed.      But  not  the  dawn.     There  rose  instead 
A  saffron-colored  segment,  cloud-begirt. 
That  caught  its  radiance  in  the  pool-flecked  marsh, 
And  in  ©ne  special  mere  rained  down  its  light. 
So  I,  who  thought  to  welcome  death,  the  dawn 
I  longed  for,  sadly  greet  this  moon  of  love. 

Lorraine.    'Tis  strange,  last  night,  I  saw  that  very 
moon. 
It  rose  so  silently,  so  still  and  swift 
That  I  did  marvel  at  it.      And  as  it  rose 
Its  light  grew  more  intense,  till  all  the  clouds 
Lay  far  beneath,  and  without  flaw  it  shone. 
Because,  I  see  it  now,  though  then  I  knew 
It  not,  because  it  drew  frank  fearlessness 
From  one  clear  pool  that  spread  its  heart  below. 

Henri.    But   soon   the  tardy  dawn,  once  longed   for, 
came, 
And  then  I  lost  my  moon. 

Lorraine.  'Twas  thou  wert  blind, 

For  it  was  there,  although  thou  could'st  not  see  it. 

[■>5] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

O  I  was  taught  by  the  good  nuns  at  Mans 
That  after  death  there  is  a  life  beyond, 
A  life  so  rare  and  beautiful,  it  seemed 
A  puzzling  thing  that  even  they  who  told 
Of  this  far  land,  should  still  have  feared  to  go. 
And  thou  too,  hast  this  happy  faith  of  mine, 
For  I  have  heard  that  when  Monsieur  Henri 
Entered  the  fray,  he  made,  unseen,  the  sign 
Of  our  dear  Lord's  true  cross  upon  his  breast. 
If  there  is  life  beyond,  why  should  we  grieve  ? 
The  moon  is  there,  although  we  see  it  not. 

Henri.     And  thou  wilt  not  forget  that  here  on  earth, 
To  this  poor  Henri,  wandering  in  defeat, 
A  driven  outcast  whom  your  father  scorns. 
To  him  thou  gav'st  in  pledge  thy  gentle  troth  ? 

Lorraine.     To  my  one  hero,  to  my  lord  Henri  — 
He  who  has  taught  me  what  true  manhood  is. 

Henri  \timidly^  .    Ah,  dost  thou  find  me  somewhat  like 
thy  dream  ? 

Lorraine.     Beyond    desire    my  fancies    have    come 
true. 
For,  once  I  dreamt  —  but  what  are  maidens'  dreams  ? 
A  few  vague  shadows  that  will  never  be  ! 
I  think  we  are  as  birds  that  come  and  peep 
Within  the  casement,  and  then  fly  away, 
And  hardly  know  what  they  have  seen  within. 

[.i6] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

Henri.    For  if  they   pried   too   close  they  would  be 
caught, 
And  ever  after  live  within  a  cage, 
Even  if  a  golden  one.     Thus  would  I  snare 
A  timid  bird  and  hold  her  in  my  heart. 

Lorraine.    Thy  golden  cage  than  gladdest  liberty  ! 
O,  I  would  rather  rest  a  fluttering  bird 
Within  thy  cage,  than  float  a  speck  of  joy 
Over  wild  seas ! 

Henri.  Was  that  thy  dream  ? 

Lorraine.  The  past 

Is  now  as  if  it  never  were.     Some  one 
There  was  who  bore  the  name  Lorraine,  who  sat 
Within  her  father's  library,  or  strolled 
Behind  the  convent  walls,  and  plucked  a  rose, 
And  wondered  what  could  lie  without  the  walls  : 
There  once  was  such  a  one,  but  in  far  days. 
Since  when  her  dreams  have  grown  realities. 

Henri.    Bold,  all-possessing  are  the  dreams  of  men, 
But  never  thought  of  man  could  match,  could  know 
The  perfectness  of  this. 

Lorraine.  Thou  too  hast  dreamt  ? 

Henri.    Forgotten  is  my  past,  erased  like  thine. 
This  present  only  lives. 

[Lorraine   draws   aside ^   and  tremhlingly   touches 
her  lute.~\ 

[■■7] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJA^UELEIN 

Ah,  do  not  move, 
But  let  my  memory,  now  molten,  fix 
Thy  image  thus  !     So  shall  I  see  thee  stand 
In  days  to  come,  thy  hand  upon  thy  lute. 

Lorraine.    Then  will  I  sing  thee  one  more  memoi\v 
The  saddest  and  the  sweetest  song  I  know. 
Not  quite  a  song,  but  words  I  sing  in  tune ; 
And  when  discouragement  doth  come  to  grieve 
Thy  faith,  thou  wilt  remember  it  and  me. 

^Sbe  sings,'] 

Better  to  be  a  crystal  and  be  broken 
Than  dull  clay  like  a  tile  upon  the  roof, 
Better  to  put  thy  courage,  doubtful-hearted, 
Unto  the  proof. 

O  in  success  there  often  lurks  a  failure 
That  feeds  upon  the  soul  in  hidden  shame. 
And  in  defeat  there  sometimes  rests  a  triumph 
Greater  than  fame. 

\_Outside^  loud  excited  voices  are   heard;    hurrying 
steps  in   the  hall.     Lagrange,  with  Texier, 
rushes  past  the  door.      Enter  Stofflet,  hastilw] 
[118] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

Stofflet.    Monsieur  Henri,  haste,  haste,  for  we  are 
known  ! 
A  careless  word  of  Texier's  gave  the  clew, 
A^nd  with  the  cry  of  "  Brigands  "  he  has  gone 
To  rouse  the  garrison.     There  yet  is  time 
To  fly,  but  haste  !      The  others  are  gone  on  ! 

[Henri  waves  him  back^  and  turns  to  Lorraine.] 

Henri.    And  have  I  only  found  thee  but  to  say 
Farewell  ?     Then  fare  thee  well,  true  heart.     I  shall 
Remember  thee  and  thy  brave  words  forever. 
I  pray  thee  lay  thy  hand  upon  my  head 
In  peaceful  benediction.      I  am  thy  knight 
Henceforth,  if  thou'lt  accept  for  servitor 
One  who  can  bring  no  trophies  with  his  love. 

[//if  kneels  and  raises  her  hand  to  his  brow.! 

Lorraine.    No  jewelled  sleeve,  no  banner  can  I  give, 
Henri,  my  dauntless  knight.      Ah,  when  thou  art 
In  heaven,  I  fear  thou  wilt  forget  me  soon. 
Swear  thou  wilt  not.      Nay,  promise  naught.      I  would 
Not  bind  thy  soul,  just  freed  its  weary  earth. 
Thou  art  so  true,  Henri,  that  thou  wouldst  keep 
Thy  word,  even  if  in  heaven  were  maids  so  fair, 

[■■9] 


HENRI    DE    LA    ROCHEJAQUELEIN 

The  loveliest  here  were  but  a  sorry  choice. 
No  promise.     But  when  with  the  seraphs  thou 
Art  radiant  as  they,  if  thou  shouldst  then 
Remember  me,  I  shall  be  waiting  here. 

\_Reenter  Stofflet  :  he  places  Henri's  cloa^  on 
his  shoulders.~\ 

Stofflet.     M'sieur  Henri ! 

[Henri  goes  with  him :  at  the  door  he  turns  to  look 
back :  Lorraine  smiles  bravely^  touches  her  lute 
and  sings  as  they  gaze  at  each  other. ^ 

Lorraine.    And   in   defeat   there   sometimes  rests  a 
triumph 

Greater  than  fame. 


^Curtain  falls. "^ 


Henri  de  la  Rochejaquelein,  shot  by  a  Blue  in  the  forest  of  Vezin, 
January  28,  1794. 


[120] 


NOTES 

Page  27 
"y/5  if  its  luaters  were  the  rippling  Lee." 
See  Wordsworth's  sonnet  on  Isaac  Walton  :  — 

"  He  found  the  longest  summer  day  too  short 
To  his  loved  pastime  given  by  sedgy  Lee." 

Page  79 
Chronicle  of  Limhurg^  I ^80, 
See  Heine's  Gestdndnisse. 

Page  85 

Cries  out  "  Captain  III " 

**And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill." 

Shakespeare  —  Sonnet  Ixiii. 

Page  89 

"  The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  bird." 

"The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds." 

Tennyson:   Tears,  idle  tears. 

[121] 


NOTES 

Page  97 

Henri  de  la  Rochejaquelein. 

See  the  Memoir es  of  Mme.  Louis  de  la  Rochejaque- 
lein, formerly  Mme.  de  Lescure.  Also  Louise  Imogen 
Guiney's  delightful  account,  Monsieur  Henri. 

Page   118 

Better  to  he  a  crystal  and  be  broken^ 
Than  idle  like  a  tile  upon  the  roof. 

From  an  old  Chinese  proverb. 


[122] 


TREASURY  OF  GOOD    WORKS 


Members  of  the  League  should  offer  what  they  can 
of  the  Good  Works  enumerated  in  the  Treasury,  for  the 
intentions  of  Associates,  as  indicated  in  the  Calendar; 
for  each  good  work  expressly  offered  an  indulgence  of 
Ti'O   days   is   granted. 


1. 

Acts   of   charily 

-o 

>^ 

c 

:. 

Reads 

o 
o 
O 

Way   of  the  Cross.  . . 

^ 

l; 

c5 

V 

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1) 

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In 

i. 

Holy   Communion.... 

'1. 

■? 

a> 

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Spiritual   Communion 

C 

5 

u. 

0. 

r.xamen  of  conscience 

o 

.^ 

^ 

o 

o 

o 

Hours   of  labor 

-^ 

f-^ 

Hours   of  silence.  .  .  . 

o 

"o 

u; 

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Pious   reading 

> 

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Masses   read 

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Works  of  zeal 

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Prayers 

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Kindly   Conversation. 

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Suffering,  Afflictions.  . 

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\'isit  to  P.  Sacrament. 
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m,^^:. 


